


From East to West

by k_beta_cygni



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Adrian is a Morally Ambiguous Character, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Vietnam War references, a bit gory, depends on how u read into it, everyone is trying their best, good for him, i have warnings per chapter dont worry about it, oh and she's a lowkey psychologist, pre-watchmen for chapters 1-11, weird kiddos but still good kiddos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_beta_cygni/pseuds/k_beta_cygni
Summary: 'I'm tired, and the bruises along my side hurt with every breath.' A series of snapshots and events in the life of Madeline Grayson.





	1. No. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure whether I'm going with movie-verse or comic-verse (both general characters and the different endings). Can be interpreted either way.
> 
> Each chapter will be, at the very most, somewhere around 1000 words to fit with my schedule. Some might be very long and others short. They'll be in relative chronological order. I will try my best not to compromise content.
> 
> Please review or comment.  
> [cross posted on FFnet under "PaleGreySky"]

No. 1

* * *

It is November 24. The year is 1970. I am cold.

The gravel crunches beneath my booted feet as I walk quickly down the trails along the beaches of Lake Washington. My breath mists in pale plumes around my face, my nose red and my ears numb with cold under a worn baseball cap.

The air stings in my lungs.

The lake is grimy, filthy – toxic dumping into the waters have made it unsafe for any sort of activities with and around the channels. Up ahead I see an old man and his son fishing in the water. Packed down with heavy winter coats and ripped woolen gloves, the pair stand silently on the worn dock.

I want to tell them that they shouldn't fish there – that there were deposits of mercury and trash and wastes that the fish eat away at slowly. But I'm tired, and the bruises along my side hurt with every breath.

_Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch._

Behind me I hear the sound of someone running closer and closer. Close enough now that I can hear their strangely steady breathing, the even pace of their footfalls.

I do not turn but the man slows down next to me. His hair glints gold in the pale, washed-out light from the overcast clouds. As if we can hear each other's thoughts, we're both waiting for the other person to speak. He's walking very close to me. I can feel his warm breath on my bare shoulder – on a rip in my jacket where my skin shows through.

"Are you alright, miss? You're limping."

His voice is lightly accented – German? I'm not quite sure. I silently shake my head, but the movement causes a spike of pain to flare up in my ribs and I hide my wince, hide the soft gasp I make. But he hears it all the same.

The cold air is making my head hurt, and I can already feel the sticky, warm liquid beginning to seep from the wrappings on my waist. He seems to be waiting for me to say something, do something. The atmosphere is stifling.

Tired. So tired and cold. Hair brushing in cold wisps against my bare neck. Man walking next to me, hand reaching to grasp my shoulder; old man far behind with his son on the docks. Evil grey water lapping at the rocky shores. Seagulls wheeling in the frozen sky, harsh, vibrating cries from their throats.

Wind pushing through trees; leaves flashing their silvery sides.

He is Ozymandias. King of Kings.

I am but a civilian doing what's right.

I'm falling.


	2. No. 2

No. 2

 

 

 

* * *

The first time we hold hands, it is February of 1971 and fire is raging like a storm around us.

My skin feels like it's roasting into a peculiar dryness from the heat, my hair brushing like dry grass against my neck. The flames are like bulbous clouds, bursting bubbles around us, veined thickly with ochre. They are everywhere, and the cold and pale moonlight from the window catches me by surprise.

His lips are parted, and within the sharp contours of his mask, steel blue eyes are reflecting bloody reds and golds. In the blast of smoke and heat, I can barely hear his voice. _Run._

I'm grabbing his gloved hands, his fingers strangely warm in my palm. Our fingers interlock as I feel, more than hear, the creaking beneath our feet as the floor begins to fall away. Together we sprint towards the grimy windowpane. Already the burning is gleefully chasing us, licking at our heels, singeing my hair.

I think we won't make it.

The crystal sound of shattering glass is a beautiful contrast to the wind-roaring of the fire behind us. The blast of frigid winter air shocks the skin on my cheeks. Midair, Adrian grabs me, pulling me up against his chest as we drop down the 3 floors towards the snow-lined pavement below. His arms wrap around me and I realize he's trying to shield me from the worst of the fall, and then-

The impact knocks the wind out of me and I'm sure I hear a bone break, making me scream before my teeth snap closed on my tongue and blood immediately pools in my mouth. Adrian is crying out, muffled groans of agony escaping him as he releases me. My head feels woozy and my brain strangely empty and wobbling, the hurt pulsing heatedly through my torso and up to my head. Breath is whooshing out of me and I spit out the copper in my mouth. It splatters in strange red shapes against the perfect whiteness.

A hand on my side, rolling me over so that I'm blessedly face down into the frozen powder. "Get down," Adrian chokes out, and then the upper floor explodes.

I am shrouded in darkness all of a sudden. Everything sounds muffled and I whimper, my head feeling too heavy for my neck. In the darkness I can barely make out the glint of his gold gauntlets on either side of my upper body.

And Adrian is crouching over me, covering me with his body and his cape as flaming debris falls around us like so many meteorites. I can feel the tears beginning to slide hotly down my cheeks as he groans again in obvious pain. His head bows and I feel the press of his jawline against my neck. He's muttering something softly in German, and his hand comes up to hesitantly touch my cheek.

"Shh, shh-shhhhhh, darling."

The air stinks of gasoline and sweat and blood and I sob again, my hands curling to fists as a slight movement jars the ribs on my side, another flare of pain. In the distance I can already hear the approaching sirens – but they're far enough that we can probably get by.

"Adrian, I'm going to—" I cough, spitting out blood, another quiet groan escaping me. "Gonna call Dan." It's then that I notice he's gone silent – I can't feel his breath anymore on the back of my neck, and his hand has dropped off my skin. The pounding of my heart makes my bruised ribs ache, and I swallow.

"Adrian?" He sways, and I tense as he falls, collapsing on top of me.

I cry out at the sudden added weight and it dies down to a groan as my suit grinds up against the broken pavement under us - he's crushing the air out of my lungs, adding more pressure to my injured ribs. Slowly, I crawl out from under him, wheezing. The fires on the top floor are still raging but the worst of it has passed, and so once I'm sitting again I focus my attention on him. His eyes are closed under his mask and I press my index and thumb under his jawline, feeling a steady pulse. Unconscious, but still alive. Tearing off my gloves, I hold my fingers under his nose and feel his breathing.

In the distance twin beams of white shine in the darkness far outside the factory and I curse, tugging the comlink out from a side pouch on my belt, the movement of my torso again creating a spiking pain up my side. The red button clicks when I press it, and I shove it back into the pocket before moving over to sit by his head. I grab onto his shoulders and crouch, trying to pull him over to the hole in the fence. The going is slow and I wince when I hear the roof begin to cave. Flames are pushing like liquid out of the windows and holes, dripping burning bits of wood and fabric into the air.

My fingers feel numb against the polymer-Kevlar of his suit, and my back is aching already from trying to drag about 200 pounds of solid muscle and armor.

The police sirens are wailing.

Somehow, in the myriad flashes of blue and red and orange I'm able to find the jagged hole in the fence. I cut my finger on a sharp end and swear again, sucking it into my mouth as pain blooms across my hand. The taste is metallic and I hiss, grabbing hold of him again and carefully dragging him across the dirty snow onto the patches of weed-filled grass outside the fence.

I hear the roar of an engine before the police car crests the small slope into the lot of the factory, and silently pray that Rorschach or Dan has received the distress call.

The lights stop flashing.

Car door slams.

Footsteps on the gravel.

Flashlight clicks on, casting an oblong beam of yellow light on the darker corners of the ground floor. The fire seems to growl at him as he nears the building.

"Gonna need backup. Fire at the abandoned Westfield factory. I don't think anyone's still in there. Over."

The sky overhead is the dark-reddish purple hue of clouds lit by the city lights. I lift his upper body and rest him on my lap. A laceration on my calf stings sharply when I slide my legs over to the side, and I hold my breath, trying to keep my back straight so as to not collapse onto my side. Quietly, I wipe away a smear of dried blood from his jaw. My bare fingers brush across his cheekbones – his skin is soft and warm under my touch. Carefully, I take his left hand and pull off his glove, taking his wrist and pressing my fingers against the soft skin there.

I'm too injured to do shit if the policeman sees us. But now, in the dying light of the flames, it all seems right.

He walks closer and closer.

My eyes close as I feel the gentle, thrumming pulse of his life under his flesh. His fingers twitch against my hand.

The light is growing brighter around the factory.

Not sunrise. Not yet.

"What in the hell…"

There's a sound growing louder and louder above us. I look up and see Archie flying towards the factory lot from the east, his headlamps glaringly bright. Two figures are standing, one in each large eye.

_"Stand down, officer. We mean no harm."_ The voice from the owlship is loud and commanding. Archie lands and I hear the door whoosh open, footsteps on dry grass.

Dan runs over to me, and the policeman's flashlight beam lowers to rest on our figures. "Oh shit—" But he makes no move for his gun, only begins to back away, his face filled with fear. Soon he's running back to his car, his movements frantic.

"Requesting immediate backup! Four Watchmen sighted on the premises!"

"Christ," Dan whispers, taking us in. I shakily stand, feeling each and every muscle in my torso protest. I bite down on my lip as my broken rib contorts in my chest, the agony blinding me for a second. Another figure joins us, and I feel Rorschach place his hand on my arm.

"Will take it from here. Should go inside and rest."

I shake my head even though exhaustion is overwhelming me like a tidal wave. Not until my partner is safe. Dan motions for me to grab Adrian's feet, and he hauls the man up by his shoulders. Rorschach watches soundlessly as we carry Adrian back to the owlship, and when we finally lay him down I collapse by his side, sobbing a little from the pain. He's still staring at me as I lay my head down on my knees. And the dots on his face are moving in incomprehensible shapes.

Like fire in the wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review.


	3. No. 3

No. 3

* * *

In 1972, I'm late to work, and a strong gust of wind is blowing hard past me. My hair flies in my face and I wince, my eyes stinging as cigarette smoke wafts over from an alley. The sidewalk is crowded with men and women walking to work. I hear the wail of children, the tinkling rustle of noise as a scrap of metal slides across the pavement, the soft muttering of voices from someone walking by me.

My frozen fingertips clamp down on the manila folder as a gale pushes by, but as someone's shoulder bangs up against mine, a small packet of papers slide out from in between the cream folder.

"Crap!" I quickly turn around, chasing the flashing white rectangle as it flies in the air into the passersby. The paper disappears beneath the browns and greys and blacks of people rushing by, already too far away, and my shoulders slump. I move towards the side of the street, leaning against a brick wall and shoving my bag under my arm. The folder falls open in my arms and I leaf through the numerous dissertations and research notes I'd compiled, trying to discern what I'd lost.

It's then that I notice someone's standing in front of me; rather, the smell hits me first – sweat, unshowered skin, and a cloying cologne. My eyes catch onto frizzled ginger hair and dark smatters of freckles on high cheekbones, an unshaven jaw. Startlingly blue eyes.

A man is standing in front of me, dressed in shabby, worn clothes. In his hand is the packet – a little crumpled, the sheets catching a little on the fraying edges of his torn gloves. In his other hand he's holding a sign, which he now carefully swings towards the ground, resting it on the chipped concrete.

_THE END IS NIGH._

I swallow, looking back up at him. For a moment, he makes no move to hand the paper to me, but my mouth drops open as he suddenly jerks his hand forward, shoving the packet in my face. His voice is raspy and vaguely familiar.

"Dropped this."

"Oh, I, um…Thank you." I gingerly take the papers and slide them haphazardly into the folder.

His voice is gruff, maybe amused. "Should be more careful next time."

"Do I…Do I know you?" To my shock, something guarded drops over his face. The wind ruffles his orange hair.

"Don't think so." Suddenly, he's gone, twisting through the crowds.

"Wait!" But I already know it's too late, and I resign myself to knowing that I'll see him around somewhere.

At midnight, Rorschach and Dan join Adrian and I in the Lower East side.

* * *

Two weeks later, I'm standing in line at some obscure bakery before work. I order an onion bagel, hot from the oven, and then, ruefully, a maple bar. The oily heat and sweet smell from the baked goods make my stomach growl, and I hurry out of the shop into the cold morning, the yellow bag in my hand.

I nearly walk into him at first, but quickly stop short. He looks a little less tired, but his gloves are gone and his fingers are turning pink in the air.

"I, um, never got to thank you for getting that packet the other day." He looks at me intensely, and I flush, bowing my head a little. The fuzzy edge of my scarf tickles the skin under my jaw. "I mean, uh, if you hadn't caught it, I'd've gotten into trouble with my boss."

When he still says nothing, I grab the bag and hand it to him. "For you."

A scowl crosses his face, thin lips twisting into a sneer as he glares at me. "Don't want handouts."

"I know. Please. Just, I have to thank you somehow. A-and there's enough…unfairness happening around here."

Half a minute passes, then he takes the bag from me.

"You're welcome," I say nervously. Another tense, awkward silence. "Um, I should…I should get going." I nod at him before I turn and leave for 116th street and Broadway.

In the afternoon I see him again from across the street. The jagged wooden sign is slung over his shoulder and he looks as tired and scruffy as ever, but his gait is steady and purposeful. He's still holding the bright yellow paper bag, and I smile awkwardly as I raise my hand. He looks at me, and even though he does nothing I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Thank you," Rorschach says to me at one in the morning. My hands are sore, my cheeks frozen and my nose cold as another light breeze passes by. I look down at him. His fingers deftly tie the last knot around the mugger's wrists. My brow furrows.

"For what?"

He doesn't say any more, but I realize the slow shifting of ink on his face is enough for words tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you kiddos think.


	4. No. 4

No. 4

* * *

There's an old man, a harlot and a young girl in the end of the alley.

Money taken, words whispered to the girl from plump, lipstick-caked mouth, from the face of evil.

The girl is crying.

The man takes a step forward – veined, knobby hand grabbing the little girl by the waist. Her cheek is pale.

I'm seeing red.

Cold handle in my palm, metal flashing through the air, warm waters encroaching gray sand shores, spilling into my hands and skin. Waters are red, like the sunset over Lake Washington.

The girl screams. Her footsteps are fast, sprinting away like a rabbit from a hunter with death in his eyes.

Wind twisting violently through the trees, ripping pine needles from their branches, moving the forest like fur on a beast's back. Mountaintops of snow gleaming like _silver_ in light.

"AAAaaaaaaagh!" Knife sinking into flesh over and over again, like stone dropping into whitewater, like trees dipping their long limbs when they are felled.

"Lena – Lena, stop!" Suddenly Adrian is standing there, gloved hand outstretched. How had I not noticed him earlier, when the redness was splashing across my face and my mouth was twisted in a howl of rage?

The knife clatters out of my hands, my fingers twitching painfully at the release from their deadlock across the aluminum hilt, and I drop the man, his long-dead body hitting the ground. The tears are spilling fast from my eyes and I tear my mask from my face, smearing red across my cheeks. I can't look at him. I've fucked up. I've done bad again.

_Oh, god._

_Oh, God._

My nails are caked with drying blood that I know won't wash away for a very long time, and I can smell the metal in the air. My knees pop as I crumple down onto the wet asphalt, the dead orange light from the street trailing over our forms. For a long while I sit there and sob, cry until I feel my lungs turn into ice and my stomach twist into stone.

His hand is resting on my shoulder, solid and real, and I grab his fingers, clutching onto him, trying to hold on to my lifeline.

"What's wrong with me, Adrian?" My words are choked and my chin wobbles as I try not to burst out into a fresh wave of tears. The grimy puddles of water are staining my kneepads and soaking into my skin, and I want to run, away from the dead man in the alley, away from the darkness that clings like a spider to this city, away from this mask. Away from Adrian.

"Nothing, sweetness." He cups my face in his hands – carefully swipes a strand of blood-matted hair away from my eyes. His face looks carved in marble, and his eyes are so very sad. His thumb rubs under my jawline and my eyes shut tight, my lip trembling. " _Nothing_."

I sleep in his arms that night. Even though we're both naked and left open, nothing - and somehow, everything -  happens between us. Scars are left raw and ragged in the moonlight, purpling bruises tender to the touch. He hugs me closer and I press my face into the crook where his neck meets shoulder, trying to tuck myself – tuck my whole being into the warmth and safety he offers so unguardedly. Trying to cover me with his tenderness.

It is enough.

* * *

_If I was King of the World,_

_You'd be my girl,_

_You wouldn't have to shed one single tear -_

_(unless you wanted to)_

**_'Cause yeah, I know what it's like._ **

-Weezer, King of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review, kiddos.


	5. No. 5

No. 5

* * *

The days turn into weeks and months, bleeding on through. I still see the end-is-nigh man - he's offering more and more one-word responses to my persistent questions, which is good, right? He has the symptoms of childhood neglect, though. Sometimes I catch him staring at my palm when I gesture with my hands while talking, a muscle jumping in the corner of his eye.

Adrian lets me stay at the penthouse after a night when I fall asleep mid-patrol. He never tells me to leave and I stop asking permission to sleep by him each night. I begin to feel less like an intruder and more at home with every day that passes. It's the feeling of security, I tell myself. Not the soft chuckle I hear from down the hall when I sing in the shower, not the way I stare at his back in the morning when he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth (because he has a really nice back, I'll admit), not the way he preaches animatedly about a vegan lifestyle and cooks all our meals and eats tofu and lentils and kale for snack, not the way he stares at me each night when he thinks I can't see him out of the corner of my eye.

Not how we go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed and wake up tangled in each other's arms, basking in the warmth of another human being.

Today, though, when I wake up in the morning the space beside me is empty.

Light is filtering through a thin open sliver where the curtain just barely meets the wall's edge. The heavy comforter is so warm and I blink slowly, twisting on the bed. Smacking my lips, I grab his pillow and bury my face in it, inhaling the smell of his shampoo and the scent that was so…Adrian.

He hadn't slept here in days, hasn't gone on patrol for some time, and I've stayed behind as well just to keep him company. When he's at the office I sit on the futon at the far side of his desk, grading psych papers and doing my own research. He kisses me goodnight before I head upstairs at 12, promising that he'll be there soon, but he never comes to bed. Sometimes I'll wake up at five or six to see him coming out of the shower or changing into new clothes. The new and growing clean-energy project, a small notion that he's started on – obviously an important prospect, certainly bringing hope to the war going on – it's working him down, a feat that I thought would have been impossible. My hand slides up and down the cold side of the bed as I muse over this problem, and I make a humph-ing noise, rolling onto my back. It's Saturday morning and I don't want to get up – not yet.

A loud crash from somewhere in the penthouse jolts me from my reverie. There's soft, angry muttering and I hear another dull crash.

"God!" Adrian's voice, very clear now. I jolt out of bed, rubbing at the gooseflesh rising on my cold forearms as I stand on the cold carpet. Once I've rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I follow the sound towards the living room.

The mirror in the hallway is shattered, large spiky shards of glass littering the wood flooring. My reflection catches in a particularly large piece of glass as I gingerly tiptoe by and walk over to the entrance, where I pause, my sleep-filled mind attempting to take in the sight before me.

It's too bright, first of all, and I squint in the sudden whiteness. As my vision adjusts, Adrian stands up from the couch. He walks over to his desk, grabbing a stack of papers, schematic sketches and folders in one hand – I notice the bright smear of crimson he leaves on them when he tosses them hard into the recycling bin. The left collar of his shirt is popped upwards, and his hair, normally neatly kept and combed, is disheveled and strands of it are falling into his eyes.

"It's all worthless!"

One hand goes up to shove his hair from his face and I wince when the cut on his palm bloodies the pale skin on his forehead. I walk over and grab his arm, pulling him down onto the settee. "Come on, take a break."

He glares at me as I head for the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kid out of the mirror cabinet. I take a deep breath as I walk back and sit down on the cushions next to him, taking his right hand and uncurling his fist.

A soft gasp escapes me as I survey the damage; a shallow gash sliced diagonally across his palm. The cut, made by the glass, is relatively clean, and I can't see any shards caught in it. The smell of iron is heavy in the air and I take out the bottle of saline, unscrewing the cap and liberally pouring it on his wound. His hand jerks a little against mine but when I look up, he's staring in the direction of the window to our right, his gaze distant and indifferent. The red water splashes onto the stone tiles and he looks downward.

"Don't worry, we can clean it up later." I reach for some cotton and the roll of gauze. Pressing the cotton down on the still-bleeding wound, I use my other hand to peel the elastic gauze open.

His hand replaces mine, applying pressure to his hand as I tear off around two feet of gauze. He still sits there, his face blank as I wrap his hand up. I sigh when I finish, pulling his left hand into mine so that I'm holding both his hands.

"Adrian, you have to…you have to take better care of yourself. I'm not always gonna be around to patch you up." I joke, but he still says nothing, staring at the blood on the floor. "C'mon. It's not the end of the world any time soon." Not even as America and Russia get closer and closer to nuclear war. I sigh.

He says something, then, so quietly that I almost don't hear it but for the iciness in his tone. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" My brow furrows as I look up at him.

"Half the world doesn't even know who you are, much less who you are to me. You don't even…understand what I'm trying to accomplish here." The shadows under his eyes give his face a hollow, starved look. His blue eyes are dim, his voice derisive. "What am I to you, a bedwarmer for those long, cold nights? Is it a _good fuck_ you're chasing after?"

"Excuse me?!" My mind tells me that it's his sleep deprivation talking, that he doesn't mean it. But it still hurts. After these two years, is this what he truly thinks?

"You heard me, Madeline."

The back of my hand connects hard with his cheek and his face twists to the side, mouth dropping open. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room. His skin is rapidly reddening along his cheekbone when he turns back to look at me, and I can't for the life of me understand the expression on his face – anger or sadness.

"Fuck you, Adrian. You think I don't care about you? You think that I don't love you?!" My voice is turning shrill, and I feel my nose twitch as tears fill my eyes. "God damn it!"

He stares wordlessly at me, his injured hand going up to touch his face, fingertips grazing over the swelling skin. I cover my mouth with my hand as I begin to cry. I can barely breathe – my body is shaking.

"Christ, Adrian. I…I love you." I sniff wetly, another sob escaping me mid-sentence as I wipe at my eyes. "I love you so much."

When he still doesn't speak, I feel my heart break. "Say something. Please." I bite my lip and feel a fresh wave of tears slide down my cheeks – my throat is raw from crying. "If…If you really…don't want me. I can – I can leave." After several long, painful seconds, I stand, looking away from him. Maybe we were over.

"Please, Lena. Wait." Adrian grabs my arm and pulls me down to sit beside him. His fingers brush against my eyelashes, wiping my tears away. When I unintentionally lean into his touch, his mouth curves into a regretful smile. His voice is decidedly soft, almost a whisper.

"You…you are worth more than I deserve. I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm sorry… for making you cry." He exhales, trying to find words to better explain. "I have always been alone. I've almost forgotten what it was like to…" He looks into my eyes, hand still cupping my face, and for a moment I see a young man who is tired and hurt, who doesn't know how he can save anyone anymore. "Lena, I've almost forgotten what it was like to have someone who…wanted to take care of me. Forgive me, my love."

Sadness overwhelms my soul and I settle closer to him, my arms wrapping around his broad frame. For a moment the situation makes me almost laugh. When had our roles changed – evened out, perhaps? This beautiful, powerful man – who sees the darkness in the night and doesn't look back, who has never turned away from me, has never judged me for what I've done, who has been my partner for so long. We've brought down criminal empires together, carried each other home more times than we could count. His fingers are still shaking, and something aches in my heart when his hand slides down, touches my quivering jaw so tentatively, as though he isn't sure I'm real.

I take his hand from my face and squeeze it. "Adrian, you'll never feel alone again. For as long as…" I smile, reaching up with my other hand to push his hair out of his eyes. His lips part a little. "For as long as I am alive. I swear."

He kisses the corner of my mouth, so strangely shy, and my hand tightens around his, not wanting ever to let go again.

(later, he tells me about a young boy from Germany who was too smart for his own good, and the feeling of standing at the grave of both his parents at seventeen years old. It's not easy for any of us, never is.)

(but we have each other to hold on to.)


	6. No. 6

No. 6

* * *

In the late summer of 1972, Adrian takes me to Karnak, his Antarctic retreat. The plane ride there is exhausting and I feel nauseous the entire time, but thankfully I don't throw up.

When morning arrives – well, technically it was nearly always light at the south pole – Adrian wakes me up from my position curled up on the bed in the spacious bedroom of the plane. We walk into the cabin, and outside I can already see the blue-white sheet of glaciers in the far distance and a pale brown dot on its edge.

"That's Karnak, over there."

"Wow." As we fly closer and closer, the complex materializes into an immensely tall trapezoidal main building, its back facing us, and several rows of small pyramid-shaped fortifications and two tall obelisks. "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair," I find myself whispering in the silence.

Adrian turns to me, eyebrows raised, and I laugh, burying my face in my hands. "Come on, dude. I wasn't too shabby at ancient river civilizations back at Northshore. I kind of forgot the rest of the poem, though. Besides. You built all of this?"

"Yes, almost three years of work."

The flight attendant – a young woman who's spent the better half of the flight glaring daggers at me whenever Adrian's back was turned – comes over and tells us to buckle up for the landing. I sit down and slide the key into the buckle, pulling the seatbelt tight as the jet descends. My ears pop a little and the familiar nausea returns as the jet curves, slowly spiraling down towards Karnak. I don't realize I'm clutching white-knuckled at the armrests until Adrian reaches over and carefully takes my hand from the cream leather, rubbing his thumb across my inner palm.

The landing itself is uneventful; I breathe out sharply as the landing gear hits the strip and we are safe on solid ground – or ice – once more. As we stand, I wobble a little, my stomach clenching from the sudden change in position, and Adrian grabs my shoulder. I wink sarcastically at the stewardess as we pass; albeit awkwardly because I still felt like I was about to throw up.

As the steps deploy from the entrance of the jet, I notice two fuzzy figures – three; the last one was a purple-red blob sitting in between the two – in a tall window at the front face of the building. Adrian smiles at the servants, raising a hand, and they wave back from behind the glass. Here, he looks more carefree; for him it was probably similar to the feeling of returning home. I bundle myself up in the heavy winter coat as we exit the jet, walking across the landing pad towards the main entrance. Snow and ice crunches under our feet, and I wiggle my nose, feeling the cold air rushing into my lungs.

Two servants greet us once we're inside in the main foyer. "Greetings, Miss Grayson. Welcome to Karnak. Mr. Veidt, would you like to change?"

Adrian shakes his head as a man pulls off our coats and leaves for a closet. "It won't be necessary right now. I will give her a tour first. Jackson, would you get a cup of ginger tea for Lena?"

"Of course, sir." The servants depart as quickly as they'd arrived.

"Come, Lena. I'll show you around."

The first time I see Bubastis we're standing on the opposite ends of a large hall. The polished marble floors reflect the image I'm seeing – a monstrous and graceful giant lynx, fur a strange bright burgundy, her tail swaying from side to side.

"Relax, darling. She doesn't bite." As he walks towards Bubastis, I hear him say something that sounded suspiciously like 'unless I've told her to.' I shiver – and it's not from the cold – as I follow him.

Bubastis stares at me, her round, golden eyes strangely transfixing. Adrian extends a hand and she sniffs him, before growling playfully and butting her forehead up against his palm.

"Orrrrrrrrrr?" She purrs.

"Just be…careful with her. She can probably tell you aren't a stranger to me, from your scent, but all the same, don't let her think you're a threat."

Bubastis falls down on the floor, still purring as Adrian scratches under her chin. I smile, kneeling down beside them and very gently petting the soft collar of fur around her throat. Her head turns to me, great yellow eyes staring at my face. A large pink tongue comes out and she licks at her own nose, blinking.

"She's beautiful." I smile as Bubastis's eyes scan my body and as she looks back up at me, her toes wiggle, her claws sheathing. Up close, she has a certain – silliness and adorable quality, and my smile widens as Adrian strokes her long ears and she blinks slowly. "Did you…did you make her?"

"Yes. About fifteen years ago, she was created here at Karnak." His tone is fond, and I realize that Bubastis may have been his only friend for a long time. "She was tiny when she first came out of the testing chambers, if you can imagine."

The attendant – Jackson – arrives with the tea, and I take it from him, whispering a word of thanks as I sip at the spicy sweetness, my queasiness nearly gone. Bubastis follows us when Adrian stands and says that he needs to show me something he's been working on. We pass multiple rooms with high vaulted ceilings, filled with objects from complex computer arrays and tables covered in schematics to almost museum-like halls with artefacts from ancient Rome and Egypt.

At the end of a hallway, a large circular blast door stops us in our path. As we wait, Bubastis swats at a strand of my hair, her tail swishing from side to side, and I giggle. Adrian types a code into a keypad beside the door and interlocking panels of steel slide open to reveal the central atrium.

He leads the way through the black granite and I walk behind, my footsteps slowing as I look around in awe. To one side of us, on a raised pedestal, is a wall filled with at least fifty-something television sets, all turned off. A fine golden chair and small table are atop the pedestal; our warped reflection shines back at us from the convex screens as we pass by. A dining table is set out on the other side of the grand room. Above us, wintry light – somehow cold even as the entire facility has heating – shines in from huge glass ceilings.

And to our front is the main attraction of the room – at the top of a limestone staircase, a four or five-meter tall black stone bust of Ramses II, stares forward, his gaze dead-eyed, lips curved into something strangely complacent. On either side of the stairs rests two tall columns, etched with strange symbols and leaf-shaped designs.

I turn to him, amazed and at the same time amused. "Wow. You didn't steal these, did you?"

He rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's secretly pleased at how impressed I was. "Let's keep going, shall we?"

A laugh escapes me and I shake my head. Bubastis trots over beside me. "I'm gonna call you Bubs," I whisper secretively. She makes a noise and licks at her paw.

After exiting the main room and moving through more passageways, we're greeted by the sight of several scientists and researchers rushing around in a state-of-the-art lab. Adrian clears his throat and a man – probably the head scientist – stops his movements, standing straight. "Sir."

"Is the suit ready for use?"

"Yes, of course, sir." He turns to me and smiles a little awkwardly. "The lady may come and test it out."

I look at Adrian, and he nods. "Go ahead. I must feed Bubastis."

The scientist, who I later know as Dr. Carlston, leads me into a glass-walled room. In it there stands a mannequin and a table beside it. "You may try it on, Miss. I will wait outside in case any adjustments are needed. The windows will become opaque as needed." He exits through the doorway and the glass turns ashy-gray.

I walk forward, carefully resting my hands on the suit on the mannequin. The cloth is amazingly crafted – padded biofoam and carbon fiber casing on the outside. I rap my knuckles against it and am surprised at how durable-sounding it is. The uniform itself is the color of snow, with gray paneling and black accents wrapping around the torso in hard strips, probably to protect my ribs and stomach. The legs of the suit are pretty much the same, and on the floor is a pair of lightweight boots.

I take my outer clothes off and carefully slide the suit on. It molds to my body and feels warm and comfortable. The suit itself has a belt with several pouches and a row of buttons on it, and when I press the first one, the color of the suit darkens to a charcoal-grey. My gloved hands skim up and down the strong-yet-thin fabric covering my legs.

_Damn. This is some rad shit._

I walk over to the brushed-steel table. On it rests a matte dark grey (motorcycle?) helmet and a pair of gloves. The glass of the helmet is glossy and clear, and on its side there's a backlit black colored dial with various settings. On either side above the glass are two large white stars. I tie my hair up and pick up the helmet. It slips lightly over my head and the glass darkens, becoming entirely opaque. And then soft white light flares up within the helmet, and, to my shock, words appear on the inner screen.

_Welcome, MADELINE GRAYSON. This helmet has been designed for your maximum safety and protection. It contains night vision capabilities as well as headlights with adjustable brightness. This helmet will lock on automatically to your suit. The viewing glass turns dark when worn, and clears when it is not in use. There is a com link system embedded into the side and already has your contacts listed within._

_Thank you for choosing Veidt Enterprises today._

The message ends there and I turn, seeing an amazingly clear view of the room. I touch the button on the right side jaw of the helmet, wondering what it'd do; light flares up inside the room. From the reflection on the wall I can see that the stars have lit up – they are the headlights. I raise my eyebrows. _Shit._ This must have cost thousands.

"Um, excuse me, Dr. Carlston?"

The man steps back into the room. "Is it to your liking? Mr. Veidt insisted that your safety was paramount, and thus we added all the latest advancements in protective gear."

"Yeah, um, thank you. Uh, would you happen to know where Adrian is?"

"Mr. Veidt asked to join you in the Ramses hall. I would suggest you wear the suit for a bit longer, just to test out walking and other various movements."

"Um. Okay."

When he realizes that I don't really know the way to the hall, he smiles. "My apologies. Head down this hallway, take a left and keep walking. At the end of that hall take another right and the hall will be in front of you."

The main hall seems creepier without Adrian here, and I shiver a little as I take the helmet off, setting it on the side of the stairs. From this angle, I see there's a dark plaque under the giant bust, engraved with gold writing. I walk up the stairs, curious, my footsteps echoing off the walls.

"My name is Ozymandias…King of kings-"

His voice is smooth and commanding, flowing carefully over the words of Percy Bysshe Shelley.

"Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."

I can't help but stare at his costume when he turns the corner into the main atrium. Adrian looks godlike, his already well-defined frame somehow made into something beyond man. And despite how I've seen him like this before, in the bright lighting he looks so much more – right, here and now.

He smiles at me but there's something strange and warm in his eyes that sends a jolt through my mind, especially when I realize that here in Karnak it's his territory and his…home, where he has total control. He tugs his gloves on a little more securely and I swallow as I watch the flexing movement of his biceps. I realize I look like an idiot; standing with my mouth gaping open and wanting to jump his bones right then and there when I had intended to come and talk to him about why he made an entire damn suit for me.

Bubastis pads over, butting her head against my waist and I rub at her ears, grateful for the distraction.

"How is the suit feeling?" Adrian asks me, and I nearly jump, my cheeks burning. His eyes are boring into mine, and although this isn't the first time he's looked at me in…that way, this is very much so the first time that it feels so real.

"It's… It's very good." My heart is racing a mile a minute as he takes a step up the stairs, and then another. The laurel on his head catches the pale sunlight casting through the ceiling, flaring white in my eyes.

And now he's close enough that I can almost feel the heat of his body – though I know very well that I can't possibly feel warmth through two layers of biofoam, Kevlar, and open air. Close enough that I can make out the minute details – the burnished gold of his arm bracers and gauntlets, the smooth color of his armor that had looked purple but I now see as a mix between purple and burgundy.

Close enough that I can see how his pupils are dilated, only a thin rim of warm-cold steel blue remaining.

"I couldn't quite get good measurements," he whispers softly, hand reaching up to gently grasp at my side. The darkness of his eyes – it feels good and it feels so wrong, and I'm completely drawing a blank as to what to do.

"Adrian…What are you…" My voice squeaks in the tense air as I try to find the right words. "I don't…um..."

He immediately drops his hand and looks away, almost hurt. "I'm sorry. I've been too forward."

I feel a wave of shame fill me at his almost and probably unintentional puppy dog eyes.

"Adrian. Please. When I – when I said that I loved you, I meant it." A breathless chuckle escapes me, and I look back up at him. "We're…our relationship is a little weird. I mean, like, we've slept in the same bed but never slept together, if you know what I mean, and we've, um, kissed but not really? And to be honest, I'm a little scared, because…you're _you_ , and I'm me."

I realize I'm babbling and I sigh again, reaching up to rub at my forehead. "And you…I know what you said, that day. That I was…enough. But sometimes I don't know – like, I've done some terrible shit, and I don't want you to make the wrong decis-"

"Madeline." Adrian is smiling kindly, his gloved hands coming up to settle on my shoulders. "I…I don't know how to say this without…sounding dramatic. But you must know that you – Lena, you are so kind. You are…brighter than anyone I've met in this city. You are honest and brave and beautiful in all your imperfections. You must know that you're the reason why I – " he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and my skin tingles.

"Since I met you, you're the reason why I've chosen to keep fighting. Because there's goodness and innocence that must be protected out there.

"We don't have to go fast, darling. And this…this doesn't change anything. This isn't the ending of anything. Just the start."

My eyes close as he leans in. His nose brushes against mine, and I swear I can almost feel him smile.

"Whoops."

His lips are soft and tender when we finally kiss.

* * *

"Are you sure you're not violating some kinda Veidt Enterprises shareholders agreement or other bureaucratic stuff?"

"Hmm?"

"You took money and made a superhero suit for me, dude."

"Okay, no, yes, I see what you mean, dear."

"…"

"Just think about it this way. I took money…to give you a protective uniform…to keep other people safe. So…mmm, it's a win-win."

"You didn't think this out before, did you?"

"Shhh, no one has to know, my love."

"Are you just gonna kiss me every time you want me to stop talking?"

"…Maybe."


	7. No. 7

No. 7

* * *

"I'm thinking of bringing the vigilantes together."

"What?" I'm rubbing distractedly at a small scuff on the back of my helmet from when I'd thrown it too forcefully against a man and it ricocheted onto a brick wall.

He seems purposeful. "Under one group – organized, controlled, and planned. The Watchmen."

"But how're you even going to get their… I don't know, addresses and contacts?"

He turns to me, grinning, and I'm in love with the childlike excitement in his eyes. "It'll be easy, trust me. Besides, a few of them are public or government. It can't be too hard."

In the darkness of night, we lean in. His lips brush against mine.

A scream jerks up four blocks away.

"Come on. Let's go."

* * *

In the end, it wasn't hard. Seven p.m. comes on one cold Saturday night and I'm sitting in a lavish drawing room, filled with nervous energy. One by one, suited vigilantes arrive. Archie lands in the yard outside and Dan waves at us through the window as he and Rorschach get out. I smile encouragingly at the second Silk Specter – Laurie Jupiter – as she comes in. Despite the fact that her suit is very… _bold_ ; shining yellow-and-black latex, she looks a little uncomfortable and wary of the others.

After a beat, I reach up and unlock the helmet from my head. My hair falls in tangled, messy waves from the interior and I self-consciously comb my fingers through it. The blackout on the front glass plate dissolves into voxels and then fades clear. The helmet makes a dull thunking noise as I set it down on the table.

Another man walks in – he's huge, broad-shouldered, looking like some kind of clichéd American mercenary; complete with black armor, chipped metal shoulder pads in red, white, and blue and a cigar in his mouth. This must be the Comedian.

"Move, little girl," he says to me. "Let an old man rest his legs, huh?" I roll my eyes but stand, crossing my arms as he plops himself down on the leather cushions, reaching past my helmet on the table to snag a newspaper.

Dan and Rorschach walk in next, Dan explaining something but stopping mid-sentence when he sees Laurie. I almost snort at the way he smiles shyly at her and cough loudly instead, looking down. One last person comes from a side room, and I look up as Adrian stops in front of the crucial display of the evening.

His voice has a simple tone of command, and heads turn to him. "Welcome. We'll be starting shortly. We're waiting for one more."

Rorschach stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I can all but imagine him thinking about how this is a waste of time. He mutters this complaint to his partner, and Dan elbows him petulantly, causing Laurie to giggle. A pink flush immediately appears on Dan's cheeks.

There's suddenly a blast of wind and bright blue light and we all turn to stare as a tall man with skin that glowed blue appeared at the center of the room, a middle-aged woman standing beside him. Dr. Manhattan, and, from the looks of it, Dr. Janey Slater.

He tilts his head down towards her, his voice a reassuring, if not amused whisper. "I told you you wouldn't be the only one dressed up." The woman beside him smiles, rolling her eyes.

"Welcome, Doctor. Now we can start. Thank you for coming today. I ask you –" Adrian gestures towards a display board, "acquaint yourselves with this map of high crime areas-

Someone laughs, interrupting him, and I watch as the Comedian folds his newspaper. His voice is muffled through the cigar between his teeth. "This s'all bullshit."

Adrian looks down at him. "You know, for a guy that calls himself the Comedian, I can never tell when you're joking."

"Watchmen. That's the real joke. Didn't work 15 years ago, sure as hell ain't gonna work now jus' because you wanna keep playing cowboys and Indians."

Dan spreads his arms. "Maybe we should agree on no drinking at meetings." The other man only laughs, and takes another swig from his flask. "Look, Rorschach and I have made real headway on the gang problem by working together –"

"But a group this size seems like a publicity stunt. I'm not in it for the ink." Rorschach growls out.

Adrian's voice is soft. "We can do so much more. We can save this world." When the Comedian snickers again, Adrian turns to him, his words pointed and tone cold. " _With the right leadership_."

The Comedian stands and I hear his knees crack. He exhales, walking over to Adrian. "And that'd be you, right, Ozy? You and your pretty little assistant?" He laughs as he points at me. The pet name is scornful, and my hands clench into fists. "I mean, you're the smartest man on the planet."

"Hey, back off, jerkface," I say, taking a step forward. He's standing close to Adrian, and I see a muscle in his jaw jump as the Comedian exhales, cigar smoke clouding the air before him. He raises his arms in a gesture of mock defeat, a smirk on his face as he backs away.

Adrian is still staring forward, his arms crossed. "It doesn't take a genius to see the world has problems."

"Yeah, but it takes a room full of morons to think they're small enough for you to handle. You people." He laughs again. "You hear Moloch's back in town 'n you get your panties all in a bunch. You think catching him matters?"

"Justice matters!" Rorschach says fiercely, pointing at him. Dan presses a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. I exhale sharply, realizing that I've been holding my breath, and Adrian's eyes dart to mine.

The Comedian chuckles, but when he speaks next, his tone is oddly sad. "Justice. Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do." A pause. "Y'know, mankind's been tryna kill each other off since the beginning of time." His slow strides circle Adrian, and he turns to the map.

"Now? We'll finally have the power to finish the job. Ain't nothing gonna matter once those nukes start flying - we'll all be dust."

A click, and the pale blue flame ignites from a lighter in his hand.

He draws it very slowly across the bottom edge of the map. "Then Ozymandias here'll be the smartest man on the cinder." With that, he walks away, heavy footfalls going past the door.

The other Watchmen are talking again, awkward introductions and words of reassurance, but I can't help but stare at the fire as it licks up the fraying, charred edges of the map straight from the center, splitting the United States into two. Smoke drifts over and my stomach twists. Adrian is dead silent, his face impassive yet strangely dark.

There is a gentle sifting crackle as one of the logs in the burning fireplace breaks over the grating.


	8. No. 8

No. 8

* * *

"Shh. Stay low." I peek out from behind the ledge of the roof, and relief fills me. "Nevermind. It's Rorschach." Adrian looks down at the lone figure walking through the orange circle of a streetlamp. His collar is turned up against the cold and his masked face is hidden in the now-shadowed section of the sidewalk as he keeps moving forward, but I can still see a large dark stain covering the front of his coat.

"Hold on." The police frequency staticks in and I can hear the mumbled voice of two policemen on patrol. I relay to Adrian the information I hear. "There's a...I think they got a gasoline fire reported in a...probably abandoned factory down at 54th street." We look back down at the figure on the sidewalk; he's slowed, standing there and staring across the street. "I wonder if he had anything to do with it."

"I'll check it out. If I don't see you, I'll be back home at 3." Adrian pecks me on the lips before I place the helmet back on my head. I pat him on the shoulder before he disappears into the shadows of the rooftop.

My head turns, watching as he vaults off the far side of the roof, and in the darkness I can barely make out his figure as he ducks and rolls onto the other side and keeps running. I shake my head after he's gone, amused by his naturally dramatic flair yet still grateful for his volunteering.

Rorschach's turning the corner now, and I climb down a rusted ladder, dropping rather loudly onto the metal fire escape and cringing as the sound echoes. The footsteps stop, then a shadow falls across the alley entrance as Rorschach looks in.

I give an awkward wave. "Hi, Rorschach!" I can almost feel him roll his eyes before he turns and keeps walking. I run out the alley, following him. "How's it going tonight?"

"Fine." His voice is hoarse.

I raise my eyebrows as I look at his coat. Up close, it's visibly dark red. "Is that blood?"

"Yes." His answer is curt as he puts his hands in his pockets and begins to walk faster. I'm surprised that he's avoiding me - we'd been "friends" for almost four years now.

"Hold on, man!" He stops abruptly when I grab his shoulder, and I quickly pull my hand away, knowing how he despised human contact. "Are you okay?"

He stares at me, the ink on his face shifting across his cheekbones, sliding upwards to crest over his forehead. His hand jerks up suddenly, as though he wants to pull the mask off his face, but he stops himself at the last moment. Looking down at his hands, I can see the flecks of dark red blood on the purple leather.

"He fed her to the dogs."

I don't understand what he's talking about, though the words and the monotone of his voice scares me. I shake my head. "What do you mean? Is someone hurt?"

"It was a mistake. Father was bus driver. No money for ransom." His voice is shaking.

"Rorschach. What happened?" My muscles ache as I lean up against a wall. "C'mon, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on," I joke weakly, rubbing at a bruise on my elbow.

He stares at me, the brim of his fedora casting a stark line of shadow across half of his face, and I look away, disconcerted by his unnatural coldness. Up in the distance I can soon see a dark, oily black column of smoke, the drifting swollen curves highlighted by a hellish orange light.

Was that what it looked like when Adrian and I were inside that factory? Broken ribs and a hairline fracture in my shin that still pains me a little today. Glass shattering, propelling us into air like ice water while heat followed. Scuttling, dry whisper-noises as I dragged him across the grass.

_Fire in the wind._

"Starmaker? Do you copy?" I hear Adrian's voice from my earpiece, and realize I'd nearly drifted off. I blink sleepily.

"Sorry, I kinda...Wha...what's happened?"

"There's police and firemen crawling all over the place. They brought out three bodies, though. A man and two German Shepherds." His voice is horror-filled. "He's burned to a crisp."

I shiver, and it's then that I realize Rorschach is gone. Where he'd been standing, now there's only cracked grey concrete.

"Shit." I stretch, standing up.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm…" I yawn. "I'm fine. Rorschach's disappeared."

"We should probably head back home. It's been a long night."

"Mmm." I nod even though he can't see me, and when I yawn again I hear him laugh.

At night, even after Adrian's asleep, his breathing soft and warm against my neck as he hugs me to his bare chest, I stay awake thinking about the blood on Rorschach's coat and the sounds of baying dogs.

* * *

In the morning Adrian is no longer in the penthouse, probably off to a board meeting. He leaves a note on the nightstand next to the window saying that he'll be back at 6, which I only see after I've fallen off his side of the bed trying to find him.

Walter Kovaks seems tired, too, at the newsstand. I buy a Gazette from Bernie as per usual, and as I'm flipping through the pages I hear the shuffling of his feet as he comes up behind us.

"Here, gotta New Frontiersman fer you," the vendor says, handing Walter the paper. The redhead grumbles something unintelligibly and drops a few coins into Bernie's gingerly outstretched hand.

"Rough night?" I ask him. Walter nods, and, without saying another word, leaves. I raise an eyebrow, but head to work all the same. We all seemed to be having a bad day.

10:43 in the morning, I'm sitting down in the faculty lounge reading a book on post traumatic stress disorder. Even though the war in Vietnam ended in victory for the US, there was still so much mental damage caused by it; things that generals and military officials wanted to overlook - things that my branch was working on to make public. The television's on, and I smile when I hear the sound of Nat King Cole's _Unforgettable_ in an ad for Nostalgia, though what I'm reading sickens me. Even during World War Two, treatments were ice baths and bloodletting to shock soldiers out of the trauma before they were sent back into the lines.

" _And, darling, it's incredible...That someone so unforgettable...thinks that-"_

The ad cuts off and I look up, eyebrows raised.

"Breaking news. I'm Natasha Johnsen, reporting live from the scene of the factory fire last night. The next series of pictures and statements are graphic and disturbing; you may need to censor if you have children near by. Police sources say that the man who burned to death in the building with his two German Shepherds has been identified as Gerald Grice. Both German Shepherds have suffered severe head wounds, and Grice himself has had his head hacked open. In the backyard of the tenement, police have also discovered remains of a young female child, and are running analyses as we speak in order to determine if this may be Blaire Roche."

" _He fed her to the dogs. It was a mistake. Father was bus driver. No money for ransom."_

My mug drops from my hand and shatters on the uncarpeted concrete floor; hot water splashing onto my jeans.

Before I know it, I'm grabbing my jacket and running out the door and down the stairs.

* * *

I find him walking along the cobblestone walkway along Central Park. The air stinks of gasoline and the oily grease of hot dog stands mixed with the wet loamy smell of the park - where nature meets the rolling city. He's doing nothing, saying nothing, his footsteps soft on the uneven paving - yet the sign in his hand and the look in his eyes are like weapons in and of themselves, a testament to the changing times. Nuclear war could happen at any second. The end was indeed nigh.

"Walter."

It's the first time I've said his name in a very long while, almost since he'd first told me it a few months ago. The man turns, sign still slung on his left shoulder. Dark freckles across his cheekbones, orange hair matted and shoulders slumped. I wet my lips, stare at my feet before I finally get the courage to speak.

"I know what...what you did for Blaire Roche. Rorschach, I know."

He stares at me for a long moment; flat blue eyes glassy and emotionless, probably as he decides whether or not to run. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and his fingers flex against the splintered wood of his sign. When I look down, I can see his hand is trembling. Just a little.

"Look…" My voice is soft. "You don't need to do it alone anymore."

"Always have been alone. Don't need friends."

To my side, a pigeon coos, pecking at a half-eaten crust of a burger next to the lamp post.

"We have time for friends. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, but we always save time for friends.' I swallow. "You can talk to me. I...I want help you. As a friend." I reach into my handbag, rummaging for the business cards. As I fish it out, his eyes follow my movements. Columbia University's crown symbol is printed on the back side, and on the front is my number.

"I...um, I have the feeling that I won't be...seeing you in a while. I'm part of the psychology board and research team at the school,: I offer weakly. 

"Don't need a shrink."

I grimace. "I...that's not what I meant, Walter. You… you don't need to do anything with it. Just take it, please."

I stare imploringly at him, and he finally pulls the cardstock from my fingers and shoves it into a pocket on his tattered jacket, before turning and walking away.

I don't see him again for two months.

In that time Adrian and I take down a drug-prostitution ring as well as go visit Coney Island. There, he has to wear a baggy grey sweatshirt and shades, hood drawn up in order not to attract paparazzi. I tease him endlessly until, in broad daylight in front of the 6'o clock news camera, he takes off the sunglasses, pulls me up against him and kisses me. The media goes wild; thankfully, my face had been mostly covered by hair and Adrian's hand on my cheek.

Like a stray cat, Rorschach eventually comes back to us. He's quieter, though. Changed. If it was even possible, he talks less than before. Dan doesn't mention it most of the time, but I see the way he looks at Rorschach after the man breaks a stranger's metacarpals at a seedy bar and calmly walks away. Affection, and something close to pain.

In the long hours before dawn, I can hear the way he breathes - tired and old - under the mask. I never tell Adrian who Rorschach is. And, sometimes, I wonder if Rorschach kept the card. If it was sitting, in jagged shadows from crumpled edges, on some scratched nightstand, slowly gathering dust.

At least we'll always have a place to put these kinds of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you think, kids


	9. No. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to speed up a bit after this chapter just so that I can get to 1985.

No. 9

* * *

A month and a half later, Adrian leaves for London in order to oversee the construction of a sector of Veidt Industries. With that, I move back into my old apartment for the week that he's gone. Shortly after, though, the elderly Mrs. Bergenson from upstairs needs help moving out, and I can't help but agree - I've heard of many people who've been robbed by their movers, not to mention that she had no other relatives to help her and yet she's helped me out many times in the past. But that's not quite the real reason I want to stay. There's something else as well - that sense of nostalgia when I step inside my apartment for the first time in two years. It's almost like a vague homesickness, but not really - a longing for the past, when there wasn't the thought that Times Square could become ground zero. When we were all a little younger. Adrian is crushed but eventually agrees after I explain this to him, saying that the time away will give him the boost needed to finish up the middle stages of his project and hopefully end all of this madness.

A few days into my stay, a large package arrives in the mail. It's too light to be anything dangerous, and so I bring it into my bedroom and set it atop the roughed-up wooden table before going to grab a pair of scissors. The cardboard is smooth under my chafed fingertips as I slit the packing tape and open it. Inside, under voluminous amounts of large packing bubbles, is something soft and whispery in dark red-purple.

I lift it out and it spills out of my arms, trailing over the floor. A beautiful aubergine-colored dress; high waisted with a short train studded with tiny rhinestones that glitter with the gray light from outside. A pale square of white catches my attention from within the box, and, still in shock, I set the expensive fabric onto the ratty covers on my bed and take out a small, cream-colored card. I squint at the perfect writing in fine black ink.

/

_It would be an honor for you to attend the Veidt Enterprises fundraising gala with me this coming Saturday. I will send a driver to pick you up at six-thirty._

_-Adrian_

/

"Aw, crap."

For weeks Adrian had been following me around, all but begging me to come to a public event with him. "I want to show you off to the world, my witty, beautiful Lena. I want to make you a queen. My queen," he'd said very seriously.

"What, you sure it's not just to chase off all the cougars and gold-diggers?"

His face turned grim and I laughed so hard I choked on the cereal in my mouth. Out of unease I hadn't really said 'yes', though inside I was curious to see how Adrian handled things outside of our lives. Four years and I'd never been to a single one of his parties or charity drives. But now, here he'd bought me this dress that must have cost half a year of my income.

"Damn, what a smooth fucker," I sigh again. He knew I wouldn't be able to turn him down - not if he buys me everything and accommodates my every need. A nagging feeling in my mind tells me to at least try it on – it had been so long since I'd worn anything other than civvies and my suit, and I wanted to feel…pretty, for once.

I strip and pick up the layers of chiffon and silk, raising it over my head and awkwardly pulling down, wary of any sort of ripping noise. The fabric slides coldly over my bare arms and back, and I adjust the dress across my shoulders. Thankfully, the zipper was high enough and my arms flexible enough to reach behind me and zip the dress up myself.

I slowly shuffle over to the mirror by my dresser, and as I stop to look, a small smile appears on my face. The bags under my eyes and the locks of matted hair on my head are still there, along with a fading bruise on my upper arm from where a mugger had grabbed me a week ago, and yet the dress clings to my body, accentuating my curves. I feel like a little girl playing dress-up with my mother's clothing and I blush again, embarrassed despite my being alone, and reach up to adjust my hair a little.

Two hours. It couldn't be that bad.

* * *

Saturday afternoon rolls around despite my insistent towards whatever heavenly figure to prevent its happening, and I'm sitting in my room again, staring blankly out the window onto the bright neon purple lights of the diner below.

This can't be happening.

I turn to look at the dress – it's hanging by a dingy wire coat hanger from my "clothesline" trailing from wall to wall – and sigh. An open breeze trails through the window, bringing with it the smell of gasoline and deep fried foods from the diner, and the sparkling length sways in the wind, flashing multicolored sparkles in the dullness of my room.

"Stop it," I say, frustrated.

I don't know much about makeup or about hair, and as the seconds tick by I feel even more nervous. I would (probably) be coming out as Adrian Veidt's romantic interest. In front of the richest people on the East Coast.

My watch timer goes off, startling me from my dismal thoughts, and I curse, seeing the time. A little less than an hour before I should be ready. When I stand I trip over an extension cord and slam my forearms down on my table hard enough that I yelp, twin bruises forming on my skin. Shit. No amount of concealer or whatever-the-fuck-it-was-that-women-put-on would cover those. A wave of annoyance and resignation fills me and I sigh heavily, again, as I turn towards the shower.

Once I'm standing in the small white space, the hot water rushing over my skin lulls me into a soft comfort. The tiles squeak wet under my feet as I step out and dry myself, pulling on my underclothes. Outside, the dress is waiting for me, the pale silvery-gold thread winking in the dying light from the window.

After I'm done putting on the dress, I pull my hair up into a messy bun, rummaging in the dusty bottom of my drawers and triumphantly retrieving a scratched tube of lipstick and a stub of eyeliner. In front of the mirror, I sigh, wriggling my eyebrows several times as I try to will some sort of positive expression into my face. I carefully draw over my eyelids a simple stroke of black and apply the lipstick over my mouth. I screw my face up as I appraise my pale cheeks. Decisively, I swipe my thumb over the lipstick and spread the layer of makeshift rouge over the apples of my cheeks.

"You got this, kiddo," I mutter unconvincingly to my reflection.

I hear a buzzing from my door, and walk over to see the driver standing outside, his face warped in the small tunnel of the viewhole. My door squeaks on its hinges as I push it open, and I cringe as I imagine what the other man is thinking about the sketchiness of my apartment. But he says nothing, merely nods at me and I follow him out the hallway, down the dilapidated stairs and outside into the moss-stained sidewalk and the shining black limousine. The coolness of the air outside soothes the sore bruises on my arms, and when he opens the door I sit down inside.

I nervously pick at a peeling spot on my fingernails as the seedier parts of New York city speed by, giving way to glimmering steel and shining glass. The air-conditioned interior of the car only makes me more anxious and my stomach coils as the car gently pulls to a stop outside the grandness of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The driver steps out and walks over to my side, opening the door for me and extending a white-gloved hand. I hope he can't feel the way my hand is shaking, but he gives me a half-smile when my eyes dart nervously around.

In the darkness of night, pale fairy lights trail around the lawn and park surrounding the Met. Large sconces are lit on the outside marble walls, casting a warm cream-yellowed glow up the corinthian columns and colorful tapestries. Across the shining step, I can hear the dull murmur of the paparazzi, reporters and journalists at the entrance of the building.

"Mr. Veidt will join you in the main hall, Miss."

"Thank you."

He only nods, gives a slight bow and opens the driver side of the limousine, sitting back in.

Thankfully, I barely get any attention as I make my way across the plaza and onto the stone steps. Tonight, the iconic water fountain is backlit by purple lights so that the dome of water gleams with the color of royalty. It's much brighter inside, the giant entrance hall filled with a pleasant yellowed glow. After I check in at the reception, I'm ushered into the main gallery, where I look around, trying to get a grasp of my surroundings. Everywhere there are people dressed in silks and fabrics so decadent and rich that I can barely tear my eyes away. Jewels sparkle as a woman beside me flicks her hand mid-laugh, and I stare at the diamonds around her throat, at the pale blue topaz gems in her ears, feeling uncomfortable and suddenly wary of all the people around - people who were so different from me, people who might not even care. I move towards the side of the main room instead, snagging an appetizer from the catering table. A waiter steps by, holding a tray aloft with crystal flutes of champagne. I pick one up, hoping it'll rid me of the buzzing nervousness in my stomach.

Relief fills me when I find a head of pale blond hair and shades of purple. Even though Adrian is mingling on the floor with the other people, it's very clear that tonight he's the center of attention – heads turn whenever he laughs, and people squeeze forward, trying to talk to him at any given chance. Adrian sees me from across the heads of hundreds of people and I blush, grinning at him.

"Excuse me," he says to the old couple he'd been talking with as he walks towards me. The heavy-jowled man looks flustered and angry but says nothing as he mutters something to his wife and they walk away. I smile sheepishly as I awkwardly extend an arm, and he brings my hand to his lips, gently kissing my knuckles.

"My love."

"Adrian." I counter with a smile.

"So. It wasn't bad, was it?" His eyes are sparkling with delight in the warm atmosphere. "I trust no one mobbed you at the front?"

I laugh, but suddenly his brow furrows as he looks down at my arms. "What?"

"Where did you get these?" He brushes his fingertips against my forearms, causing the bruises to sting.

"Uh, it was nothing. I kinda, um, fell down in my bedroom."

His frown immediately lifts, though his fingers are still gently stroking up and down my skin. "Clumsy." I roll my eyes at the teasing lilt in his voice, and he laughs. "So, how is your...apartment?"

"C'mon, Adrian. It's a pretty nice…...okay, it's bearable. There were, like, four spiders living in these cracks in the bathroom ceiling." I shudder at the memory. "But I can't let you buy an apartment for me! Besides, I'm pretty sure my friends still think I'm, y'know, 'poor college researcher' or whatever. It'll be fine. I'll come back next week."

He relents, releasing my arm and instead reaching up to brush the hair back from my eyes. "I look forward to it. It's lonely up there without you by my side, dear."

"I miss you, too." I smile. "Thank you for the, um, the dress."

"It's to your liking, right?"

"It's beautiful." I frown. "How much did it-"

"Ah-ah-ah, I can't tell you. Isn't it okay for me to just buy things for you, dear?"

It really is a nice dress, and I accede with a sigh. "Fine."

We chat for a while about everything that's been happening, from the new ice cream-donut-coffeeshop that opened down the street from my apartment to how, at Karnak Bubastis apparently ate some spoiled food she'd found and was terribly sick and grumpy. I laugh at the image in my head and Adrian pouts, saying how she'd broken a glass display housing his favorite set of Greek armor. The song being played changes as we keep talking, and he pauses mid-sentence, placing his hand on top of mine.

"Would you do me the honor of one single dance?"

At my dubious nod, Adrian takes my hand and leads me into the center of the dance floor, where different colors of marble and granite are splayed in a giant star-array. Couples part in his way and I blush at the murmurs and voices I can hear when he sweeps me up against him, our right hands clasped together and his left hand warm on my side, mine reaching up to rest on his shoulder.

The music starts slow, and Adrian guides me through a simple waltz. After a minute I grow used to the flowing motion accompanying the rhythm of the string quartet. Right step forward, step to the side, close together. Left foot forward, step to the other side, close together.

A camera flashes off to my right and in my surprise I nearly trip as my foot slips in the heels, though Adrian balances me just in time. My cheeks are burning and I blink, looking at his warm blue eyes and trying to find the calm that had been there only a moment ago.

"You're blushing, darling." His fingers lace securely through mine and he gives my hand a little squeeze. I take a deep breath and his gaze fills with concern.

"I...Adrian, they're all looking at us."

A satisfied smirk curls onto his lips as more paparazzi begin to approach, snapping pictures and speculating in mutters and whispers. "They should be."

The orchestral music crescendos and I feel Adrian's hand move to the space in between my shoulderblades as he dips me. I gasp at the sudden shift to weightlessness, and he grins as I unintentionally wrap both arms around his neck in an attempt not to fall. "I won't drop you, Lena." he murmurs softly as he pulls me back up.

And then his lips are on mine and I kiss back, feeling my heart swell with love at the way he smiles against my mouth. The crowd begins to clap politely though I can sense their confusion; some of the people are probably irritated by this display, but I'm filled with such emotion that I can barely find the usual embarrassment to care.

I break the kiss and Adrian sighs, our foreheads touching. Eventually the crowd fills in the gaps on the dance floor again; surrounded by other couples, I hug Adrian, wanting to stay in this bubble of safety for the foreseeable future.

"Mr. Veidt." I jump a little and look behind Adrian and see an impatient-looking man. "Could I speak with you? In private?"

"Mr. Iacocca." My eyes widen when I realize who Adrian is talking to. He smiles, but his voice is cold."I am busy right now, as you can see-"

I place my hand on his, looking up at him. "It's fine, Adrian. You should go." He's silent for a beat, staring at our joined hands. "I-"

He leans in, voice quiet enough that only I can hear him. "Meet me in the Sackler Wing. Fifteen minutes." Adrian steps away, plastering an annoyed grin onto his face as he turns to Lee Iacocca. "Shall we?"

I wander for quite some time through the vast halls of the Met. With each room I pass the occupants decrease until it's just me and the history of the art world. Eventually I make it to the Sackler Wing and pause just inside the door, astounded by the spectacle inside.

In the silence the room feels so very empty - yet somehow resplendent in its starkness. The gigantic three story tall floor-to-ceiling windows show the pale shadows of sloping grass; the forest outside and the city and stars beyond that. Moonlight causes webbed shadows from the window to fall on the floor; ruled lines and spears where there's no light at all. The square pool is still in a marvelously delicate way and in its reflection I can see the dark blue night sky outside

The Temple of Dendur sits in the center of the massive room, unadorned and simple in the expansive space. Lit up by floorlights that shine on the sepia limestone, the glow from the small building gives the whole area an ethereal feeling - yellow in contrast to the midnight blue in the windows. Dark granite lines the rivers of water surrounding the plaza. At this hour the water fountains are silent and still, and I can see the copper gleam of coins at the bottom of the pools.

I walk closer to the temple, my heels clicking unevenly across the floor. It feels strange to view such a old, earthly structure in a place so clean and gleaming and new. Built in Egypt in 15 BCE and here today, and it may even survive to the 21st century. And it's perplexing to realize - the memories people choose to keep are quite subjective. Some are based on legacy - power, innovation, goodness. Others on the small sentiments we keep; wooden toy cars, a paste ring from a grandmother. This was a little bit of both, and I smile as I notice the old graffiti carved onto the stone, so strange a juxtaposition to the rows on rows of neat hieroglyphics.

After exploring the small temple I walk over and sit down on a ledge of stone lining the fountains, kicking the heels off and swiging my legs loosely. For the first time tonight, with no one around and no kind of social obligation to smile and make small talk, I allow myself to relax. The quietude makes it easy for me to hear the gentle, faint sound of an owl hooting outside, and I turn my head towards the windows. In the corner of my eye, I can see the way the numerous tiny gems on my dress sparkle dimly in the pale light. The way they flash like fleeting little ideas - formless thoughts and emotion.

It is very quiet.

Just then, I begin to hear the sound of footsteps coming from the entrance to the wing. A door swings open and I shiver in the cold, letting my fingers squeeze the edge of the granite where it's unpolished and rough.

A shadow falls across the entrance to the wing, and a moment later he walks in.

"Hi." I feel soft and tiny; all of a sudden filled with a strange apprehension, and yet I smile unconsciously as my eyes follow his movements. I stand as he walks up the stairs onto the platform.

"Hello."

"So, what's your big surprise? Are you gonna-" I look away, my hand trembling as I brush a strand of hair from my neck. My voice breaks a little as I gesture awkwardly at the room, at the temple that stands resolutely and unchanging. "y'know, tell me you bought this temple or someth-...Oh… my god _._ "

By the time I turn around Adrian is on one knee before me, and as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box I find myself completely speechless. He looks up and his eyes are full of so many unspoken words, the tenderness making me feel weak.

And, really, it's incredible - I've seen him poised, I've seen him contented and relaxed, angry and sad, quiet and prideful and arrogant; I've seen him as Adrian and as Mr. Veidt and as Ozymandias. But I've never seen him like this - whole and raw. Like he's so afraid of the fact that - that he doesn't know what's going to happen next. Fear from uncertainty.

"Madeline Grayson." He pauses, and then smiles softly, his eyes lingering on my parted lips before he looks up to meet my eyes. "You have helped so many people. Just as you have helped me. Just as you have made me feel less alone." His German accent grows more pronounced and his voice flows smooth and intent over the words. "You have...everything that I can give to you. And I have never cared for - never _loved_ \- someone as much as I love you, and I cannot even hope to find someone as perfect as you are to me."

The box clicks open, and even in the enveloping darkness the old golden light from the temple causes the precious gemstones inside to sparkle. It is more beautiful, more meaningful than anything I could've imagined. I look at him again and my hand goes to cover my mouth as he whispers those four words, his voice steady.

"Lena, will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, Adrian."

He rises and my breath catches in my throat as he takes my right hand and slides the silver band onto my ring finger - and it feels right, it feels so wonderfully right. I tilt my head up when Adrian cups my jaw in one hand, and his mouth slants over mine. The kiss is so sweet and tender that it almost hurts - and it does. So much unspeakable joy and love I feel for him. He moans softly and I sigh, melting into his chest as my fingers reach up to stroke the curled hairs at the nape of his neck. When he finally pulls away we're both panting softly. His lips curl into a grin and I smile back shyly, amazed at this bright, beautiful man.

He has me, wholly, as I have him.

And I couldn't want for anything else.


	10. No. 10

No. 10

* * *

In 1975, Adrian makes the decision to go public. He tells me that he thinks it's a lost cause to try to fight each night – that such rampant crime was only a symptom of larger problems that he wants to fix not as Ozymandias but as Adrian Veidt. He comes to me before anyone else, asking if it's the right choice.

He is right, in the end. There isn't much any of us can do anymore. Sure, there's still gang violence and a few small time drug lords; people shooting up on heroin and breaking a few hearts and bones. But as much as it pains me to say this, things were getting bigger than that. And, on the other hand, the rest of the Watchmen and I would still be on the streets. I agree with him.

Adrian releases a statement a week later, followed by a short press conference. The media explodes, obviously, astounded at this revelation. Letters and interview requests pour in like a flood, and, soon enough, the attention turns to me. Reporters begin trying to find me at work for questioning, and even on the streets I have to take shortcuts in order to avoid being recognized. Only two weeks in and then they start to ask if I'm Starmaker, Ozymandias's crimefighting partner.

"I mean, I don't get it. It's kinda a given that you're Ozymandias – you're literally only wearing a domino mask. Like four square inches, tops. I'm wearing a mask and an entire helmet. How did they figure out I'm Starmaker?"

Adrian laughs. "Darling, people assume things. They know you're my fiancee and they know that Ozymandias and Starmaker have been a team for several years. It's not hard to put two and two together."

"True." I hum and take a sip of coffee, before raising my finger. "But here's plan B: we change our identities, birth date, hair color, whatever, and move to England."

Adrian huffs and rolls his eyes. "Childish."

"Come on! You gotta give it some thought. Y'know, you'd look really good with dark hair, and a name like-" I spread my arms dramatically. "Matthew!"

He throws a pillow at my head and I duck, giggling.

The wedding a year later is a tremendously small affair. Although we'd wanted this as just a friends-and-family event, for publicity's sake, Adrian finally decides to bring a small group of two reporters and one photographer with us into the woods of Adirondack park. Our final guest list, aside from the obligatory parents and such, is tiny: Dan, Jon, Rorschach and Laurie. Most of them make it, but although I'm able to hunt down his mail drop and send the invitation, Rorschach never replies and doesn't come. It was almost a certainty, really, but it would have been nice.

Adrian takes my hand once I reach the altar. I'm barely listening to the voice of the minister as he reads aloud from his book. We haven't written any lengthy vows - we don't need to. The way he looks at me, the soft smile on his lips, the soothing relief in my heart when he's beside me - it's been enough all this time, and it will continue to be enough.

"Madeline. Do you take Adrian Veidt to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

My heart is pounding. "I, Madeline Grayson, take you, Adrian Veidt, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, until death do us part."

"And Adrian. Do you take Madeline Grayson to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I, Adrian Veidt, take you, Madeline Grayson, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, until death…" A slight pause. He blinks, but when he looks back at me his eyes are filled with such tenderness. "Until death do us part."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

Adrian curls a finger under my chin and I tilt my head up, pressing my lips to his. I pull him closer and for a moment am completely immersed in his warmth - in this all-encompassing feeling of security and stability.

Madeline Grayson-Veidt. Kind of a mouthful, but I like the union of our surnames.

At the party afterwards, Laurie becomes extremely intoxicated and cries onto my shoulder for almost an hour, saying that she'll miss me so much.

"I'm glad the Comedian didn't come, though," she says spitefully. "He's a real asshole. He, you know, he nearly raped my mother!" Laurie's voice is slurred as she drunkenly pats me on the head. "And – and to think he had the nerve to say he only did it once!"

I don't tell her that he left a message a week earlier, saying that he couldn't make it. "Wish I could say that I'm sorry, sweetheart, but...I don't think I should come in the first place." As Laurie kicks her heels off and slumps into a chair, I remember his gravelly voice through the phone, and for a moment I think of the tormented man who, in his anger and hopelessness, set fire to Adrian's plan to save the world.

Jon takes Laurie home when darkness sets in, and after the journalists leave Adrian invites Dan inside to the cabin. I open a window as Adrian pours drinks for the three of us, and Dan joins me, staring at the first quarter moon; the silver-white glow coldly beautiful. The night is quiet and still, and in our words, our memories and the stories we've lived through are brought back to light.

"Y'know, Rorschach was the first to notice it. You two, I mean. He told me afterwards, but...it was pretty astounding. Nice to know at least you guys could find happiness."

I raise an eyebrow. "When'd this happen?"

"That night - do you remember?" Dan adjusts his glasses as he settles down with the two of us on the couch. "With the...the lead you two got towards that child trafficking ring. Well, Rorschach and I were almost halfway across town when we got your distress signal. When we got there it was like a goddamned beacon - the fire was so bright. And I remember seeing you two outside in the lot - and later when you told me you two had jumped out, well…"

"That was...such a bad night," I shake my head, smiling softly before I lean back onto Adrian's shoulder.

"Mmm."

"Yes, well, anyways - There was that policeman - remember how he ran back to his car, like he was completely terrified of _us_?" Dan chuckles. "I guess that was back in the earlier days, though, when they weren't sure who we were. And with Rorschach, well, he's been more brutal than any of us."

"God, Dan, just get to your point," Adrian snickers. "Lena and I have a long night ahead of us. Ow, stop hitting me!"

"Dan, come on. Keep talking."

Dan flushes. "Y-yeah so, I just wanted...I remember seeing you two out there, waiting for Rorschach and I, and...and Lena, you were by his side the whole time. You must've dragged Adrian all the way outside! You had a fracture in your leg and broken ribs - you were about to pass out yourself, but you wouldn't let go, not even when Rorschach offered to carry Adrian. And Adrian - he'd protected you as well. From what he told me later, he'd basically broke your fall with his own." He looks down at our joined hands, and smiles. "That's when I knew. Well," he raises his eyebrows, "that plus the fact that you two refused to change partners on New Years'."

"Aw, Dan." I yawn a little and he laughs.

"Guess I'm boring you two a little, huh?"

"No, no, no, that was amazing!" I can't help but pull Dan into a tight hug. Adrian smiles warmly at our friend. "That was beautiful, Dan."

Dan laughs. "I do what I can."

* * *

With Adrian no longer working with us, I begin to patrol less and less, instead enjoying the feeling of staying at home working with him - sitting on the couch reading through more books and grading thesis papers, and every now and then, quiet shuffles of paper and pen scratching on a notepad letting me know that he is here. Once a week or so I meet up with Laurie or Dan and Rorschach and spend the night protecting the city I care about so much. Back at our penthouse Adrian stays up until I come home, and as much as I tell him not to, it's nice to see him waiting by the time I get back.

For the next two years it's like this, almost a strange routine. We're not getting any younger but none of us even think about stopping - not when we've already done so much, and not when we can still do so much more. But as the weeks go on, amid more and more violent murders committed by Rorschach and the Comedian, the people rightfully turn on us. Adrian is in no danger, but as the only operating Watchmen who is pretty much publicly known, I begin to receive hate mail and threats from civilians. And as much as I wish I could say that I push them away, brush their anger off, I can't.

Then, in 1977, the police go on strike.

The six of us meet on the night of the second riot and pair up, taking different sectors of the city. Jon and Rorschach choose to operate alone while Laurie and I, and Dan and the Comedian pair up. And for the next six hours, we're surrounded on all sides by hoards of violent protesters and rioters. By the time Laurie and I have cleared four square blocks I've already used up most of my supply of stun grenades and, having lost most of my other weapons, the two of us are resorting to hand-to-hand. And It makes me sad that things have come to this. The accusations they shout, that we've ruined their city - ruined everything for the people, they strike a chord in me. All my life I've worked to help people, but it seems like we've been wrong all along, perhaps too harsh, too turbulent and changing of the status quo. Perhaps they didn't see the need for change.

Block, left hook, duck as a man swings towards my head with a metal pipe. Roundhouse kick, punch to the face.

In Congress there's a man proposing his decision on the Watchmen.

_Inhale. Exhale._

"Starmaker!"

I turn at Laurie's yell and see a woman rushing at me, crowbar in hand. Crouch and roll as she passes beside me. Swing my leg out - she trips and falls hard onto the pavement. Scraped palms bleeding red. I swear and kick the crowbar out of her reach.

In Congress, the writing's on the wall.

* * *

The crowd is beginning to thin towards the early morning hours, though the stragglers left behind are the most hard-hitting and determined of them all. I'm already tired, unused to this fighting with no respite, and I wonder if I'll be able to make it home soon.

Amid fighting off two protesters armed with spiked baseball bats and knives, the comm link on my helmet beeps. I duck and jab at his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of one of the rioters before I grab his bat and swing, hitting the other one's forearm hard enough that her knife falls from her hand. She tries to swing a punch at me with her other arm and I fake to the side before clocking her upside the head, rendering her unconscious. I stand above the two, panting hard. The man recovers, tries to kick upwards and I block it, pinning his leg down. "Come on, dude-"

Another beep. I'd nearly forgotten the message. I press the button on the side of my helmet and Adrian's voice comes on in my ear. I imagine him sitting in his office, low light of his lamp casting shadows over his cheekbones and jawline. The woman snarls, hands forming into fists, and I realize the stark difference between our two situations right now.

"The act passed."

"What?! No, it couldn't have. Congress isn't in session until the day after tomorrow!" I swat away another kick with the bat. On the other end, I hear the sound of shuffling, a slight exhale as he stands.

"Lena, they held an emergency meeting. It's...it's legalized."

"Aw, shit."

"It's time to come home, darling."

The connection drops and I sigh again, turning to look east where the sun is already rising. A new day. Dropping the bat, I reach up and pull my helmet off. The two protesters take the opportunity to run away.

I wipe at the sweat trickling down my temples, rotate my jaw a bit and sniff loudly. Cold morning air in my lungs. I can feel every muscle in my body strain and ache; a bruise swelling in my thigh from when I was hit a few hours ago. The heavyness of my heart.

Another breath; I put a hand on my hip, blinking to try to clear my fatigue. Finally, I wave at my partner from down the street.

"Laurie! They've called it."

Even from the distance, I can hear her voice. "God damn it," she swears as she shoves the hair from her eyes and lets go of a rioter, who limps away, cursing the two of us. "We've won, you bastards!" he yells, turning the corner.

I survey the wreckage around us as we walk towards each other; the shattered wreckages of cars and buildings; glass from storefronts littering the sidewalk. Two burnt mannequins, one crudely painted with yellow and black and the other, a white striped with grey, lay side by side in the middle of the street. These people had gone mad. Or maybe we did. Maybe this world is too violent to be helped.

Laurie approaches me, yawning, and pats my shoulder.

"It's over." A chilling feeling washes over me as I say those words. "We're done."

* * *

_One day we'll all be ghosts,_

_Tripping around someone else's home,_

_One day we'll all be ghosts, ghosts, ghosts._

_Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts._

_/_

_One day we'll all be found -_

_No longer lost, we're just hanging around._

_One day we'll all be found, found, found,_

_Found, found, found._

-The Head and the Heart, Ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know how you feel


	11. No. 11

No. 11

* * *

 

I find myself getting more and more tired, the unfamiliar pressing exhaustion; the weight of it all heavy and pressing. Each night there's a twinge in my left wrist that won't go away, memories of old bruises and injuries that flash with phantom aches when I roll over in bed. Feelings of uselessness that keep me awake into the early hours of morning.

I don't tell Adrian that, sometimes, when it gets too hard to stop thinking about it, I sit at the balcony of the penthouse, staring down into the city below – the streets lined with twinkling orange-gold, the soft humming of lights, of voices in the night. I still remember how it felt in those hours before dawn – where there's only me and him, Dan and Rorschach, Laurie and Jon and the Comedian in the streets, pushing back the rising darkness, the monsters that go bump in the night – trying to protect these people from what they can't and won't see. When we were the guardians; the men and women on the watchtower, keeping people safe. I don't tell him that I long for the feeling of being real, for once. And there are things, I'm sure, that he doesn't tell me as well. I wake up wrapped tightly in his arms some nights, his breathing shuddery with the after-effects of crying.

I don't know what's hurting him, and it terrifies me more than anything.

The FBI still hasn't been able to arrest Rorschach. There are rare occurrences when I see him on my way to work - though, the fact the whole world is watching means that we're barely able to say anything to each other. Every few weeks or so I'd hear from him on the news; rapists left dead in front of the police station, crime bosses delivered to prison by his hands, whispers on the streets of the man with the black and white mask. It does make me sad to see him like this; pushing himself to the limits of human will just to achieve what he believes is right. And, of myself, I feel guilty that I couldn't do what he still does every day.

I meet up with Dan and Laurie once or twice a month. Often it's almost normal. We're just friends wanting to catch up on each other's lives, to stay connected. But it's awkward sometimes, the mechanical routine of it - the silences in between where we remember those endless sunsets, trying to recognize our old friends and companions, the people who fought with us tooth and claw in these new forms.

Tonight, it's cold and dark outside, and the light is growing dim.

I yawn as I slide a bookmark into place, closing the book and placing it on the coffee-table before I stand and stretch. Adrian is still at his desk typing, and he looks up and smiles briefly at me as I walk into his office.

Below, I can hear police sirens in the city.

I look around the room, my eyes lingering on the various Egyptian artifacts on the wall, the books stacked on the loveseat, a glass of water on the table catching the pale light. The back of my head tingles with cold, and a soft click sounds when the heating system turns on.

My bare toes dig into the wool carpet as I fidget. "Do you miss it?" I finally blurt out, glancing in his direction before my gaze lowers to the floor, embarrassed.

"Miss what?"

"Being...going out there each night. Being a vigilante."

He's quiet for a long moment, warm blue eyes looking at me, and I feel self-conscious.

"Yes," he finally replies. "I do miss it, at times. What we're doing here, in this company, it will save so many more lives than we...than the Watchmen ever could. But...I admit, it felt good to know that I was protecting this city."

"We did help people, didn't we?"

"Lena, we did." He turns off his computer and stands. "Are you alright?"

I scratch at the ragged edge of my fingernails, bitten to the quick, and I flinch a little as a bead of bright red forms from the rip. "I'm fine, but I...I think about these _things_ sometimes. Like, I don't know if we'll live to see the 2000s. There's so much...disaster. With all the gang violence, and the war doesn't seem to end. And, and everything that we did - all those criminal empires we took down, the civilians we protected - d'you think that it will it all be for nothing?" I can feel the tears prickling in my eyes, and my voice trembles.

"I thought that...that we would know how to save ourselves. I thought we would know when to turn back from - this war. But it doesn't look like it's ...gonna happen."

My hand goes up to wipe at the tears now sliding down my cheeks as I begin to cry silently. The burning in my throat increases as a soft sob escapes me, and I cover my hands with my face, folding in on myself. Before I know it, Adrian is standing before me, pulling me into his arms, whispering soothing words into my ears.

"Shh, love, darling. Shhhhhh, I'm here. I'm here, Madeline."

I cry until I feel hollow and empty inside, and by then he's already guiding me into the bedroom. After we're both undressed I crawl under the covers, hunching over into a ball and rubbing at the goosebumps all over my forearms. Adrian slides into bed as well, and takes my cold hands, gently squeezing them. He kisses each fingertip before he kisses my mouth again. His arms wrap around me and I curl into him, feeling so weak and in need of protection.

For long while it's quiet. Not a terrible kind of silence, but imperfect at the same time. I nuzzle my cheek against the warm muscle and skin of his neck, and make a soft noise as he shifts. Like this, here, it feels almost like when we started all of it. And I can pretend that we just made it home and that it's time to rest. I can pretend that we're still young and we still have so much time ahead of us.

He exhales. "I've been...having nightmares, as of late." His voice is hushed when he finally finds the right words to speak, and I close my eyes, trying to find the stillness I usually feel when I'm beside him. "I dream of...swimming in a dark, open sea. And there's a ship, in front of me. I'm swimming towards it. There are these sounds - not the sounds of waves, no, but - voices."

His gaze is strange and far away as he gently traces a finger down my cheek - the near smile he has seems so horribly pained as he looks into my eyes.

"The ship is black and dark and it smells like death. Like a thousand - a million souls have died aboard its rotting deck. And it's cold - so very cold, and my whole body hurts. Sometimes I can see it if I close my eyes." His voice becomes fast; he takes a breath and I shiver at the look in his eyes. "And it's then that I see - there are heads nailed to the prow, some with gray, desiccated skin still hanging from the skulls in strips, others only...bleached bone, and they're looking at me, like it's my fault that- "

"Adrian." I'm pleading him - it hurts me to see him like this.

He looks down at me, briefly, a tender smile curving onto his lips, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion. "You're always here when I wake up. You don't know how much it...how much it means to me, to know that you'll always be here."

"We both need someone to listen. We both need someone to stay." I squeeze myself against his body, hugging him tightly, wanting so badly to chase away the fear in his eyes, wanting to protect him like he's protected me all these years. "Oh, Adrian," I whisper, suddenly so tired, so worn and weary.

A soft sigh. Warm skin pressing against my upper arm and shoulder. My eyes are sliding closed, fingers pressed against his collarbone, thinking about heartbeats and icy palms and seawater.

He kisses my forehead.

"Forgive me, Lena," I faintly hear him say as I drift off.

* * *

Oh, the streets you're walking on –

a thousand houses long –

Well that's where I belong,

And you belong with me,

Not swallowed in the sea.

You belong with me,

Not swallowed in the sea.

_You belong with me,_

_Not swallowed in the sea._

-Coldplay, Swallowed In The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review.


	12. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

* * *

October 11, 1985.

The undergrads at the university have midterms today, and the air on campus is tense and anxious. Although I'm no longer a student, I still remember exam day back at UW, and a sort of empathy overcomes me to see kids huddled in corners busily studying in the library or munching out of family-sized bags of chips and trying not to panic.

In the afternoon, I go on a run around the school. The weather is getting colder and colder, and even though I'm bundled up in my jacket, a blustery wind makes me shiver.. The forecast promises a clear sky tonight. After a faculty meeting through 6 o'clock, I make it home at 7:30 with a stack of essay papers in my hand to be graded. Adrian is making the finishing touches on dinner by the time I'm back, and as we eat he tells me he has a meeting late tonight and won't be back until 12 or so.

He kisses me goodbye at 9 and leaves me to work. The TV is on in the corner, and I hum along to the jingles of advertisements as I scan through tests.

Eventually the air is growing colder and colder from night, and even as much as I know I have to go to sleep soon, the papers need to be graded as soon as possible. And part of me just wants to wait for him to come home.

I jerk my head upwards as the hallway lights suddenly flicker. After a moment, I look back down, tapping the pen against the sheet of paper in my hand, my mind temporarily distracted.

_Tap. Tap tap tap._

It takes me a couple of moments to reread the lines before me.

_An additional area in which cognitive behavioral therapy has been found to be effective in stress-related disorders is PTSD, which occurs after an individual has experienced a major traumatic event. Typical symptoms include reliving the event, recurring thought of the event, avoidance, numbing and detachment and estrangement from family and other people._

The handwriting goes a bit awry there and I squint, trying to discern the letters.

_Tap. Tap tap tap._

Click.

The room goes dark when the breaker goes down, startling me from my thoughts. As I'm about to get up to check, suddenly, a low rumble shakes the room and I hold on to the edge of the coffee table. The sound dies down to a dull hum.

"What the hell…"

A stark white light suddenly flares on behind me, casting my shadow in a jagged line onto the wall. I turn, and stare open-mouthed at the television that turned on by itself, white snow flashing across the screen. A moment later, and color cuts onto the convex glass.

"War has been declared by the Soviet U-"

And then a man screaming, his hand clenched white-knuckled onto sofa armrests.

"They're murderin' women and babies! Just...just stabbing through the stomach 'til the guts're spilling out-"

"First missile strike in Washington D.C. has a reported death toll of-"

The soldier tips his head back, staring at the waning sunlight, the elephant grass swaying lazily around them. The mesh is falling into his eyes, his voice strangely calm.

"Well, with the first strike, the rocket came right down, impaled the man beside me an' exploded. Whole face - well, my whole body, really, covered in blood, an' lost my ear-"

"-president has evacuated the White H-"

His lips are trembling as his wife lays another damp cloth over his forehead, his dark, wispy hair backdropped by pastel roses. Outside, the sun is shining down on the green-cut lawns.

"You wouldn't understand. No one understands. It's like being caught - being trapped in this shithole of a maze, and the fuckin' trees are the ones shooting at you, and-and it's like breathing underwater, never enough clean air-"

"World War Three-"

The heart monitor beeping erratically as an army doctor rushes by. Hands shaking as he tries to take a sip of water; the cup drops from his hands and lands on the ground, the water soaking into the muddy soil.

"At night I can still see it, when I close my eyes - the little boys wit' the necklaces of human ears, three at a time, trading 'em like baseball cards. The village chief disemboweled before our eyes, his wife 'n kids crying-"

"War-"

And the next one is my patient - my own patient six years ago. Jackson Howard is shouting, his hands covering his face, eyes staring out between clawed fingers.

"-sawed his whole foot off, then his leg, cause of the goddamn shit-covered punji sticks - and they won't stop the killing, and the goddamned heat - it's driving us all insane-"

"War!"

"Oh god, oh my god and they just burned the shit outta him, set his whole body on fire-"

"War!"

"I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE-"

"WAR!"

Terror is clenching at my heart, my spine, and I scream, trying to cover my ears as the channels switch rapidly. It's too much, it's too much, it's too much.

And then a voice, behind me. "Lena!" Startling, I back up into the hard edge of a table as a woman steps through the open door. Her hair, her eyes, her face - they're all just as I remembered them. The sharp edge of the low-cut strands, the paleness of her skin in contrast to the shadows under her eyes, the rosy tone of her cheeks and the darker shade of her irises.

Impossible.

But there she is, standing in front of me, whole and unbloodied and unbroken. The way I'd last seen her, sitting with me on the docks in front of Lake Union. With the wind ruffling through my hair and her soft, bright laughter and the fading sunlight brushing gold across the waterline.

Impossible.

As if to counter my thoughts, she smiles. Reaches forward, hand brushing my shoulder. Solid and real. "I'm here, Lena."

Even as the TV is still screaming its filth and ruin, the books are falling off the shelves, the ground shaking, the glasses shattering one by one in the kitchen. Even as the clock in the corner is ticking erratically, the hands rattling beneath the glass.

Even as I realize the humming outside is the sound of the nuclear bomb siren.

But I feel as if I'm in a dream, so unreasonably slow and peaceful. Like there's suddenly nothing - _everything, Lena,_ Adrian whispers - to worry about.

"Avalyn, we have to get to the shelter-"

She cuts me off, shaking her head sharply, that same strange smile on her face. "No, it's too late. I'm so sorry we didn't get more time. I'm so sorry."

"Ava-"

Outside, there's a brilliant flash of white light. It's hot - it's too hot, and the pressure on my ears is painful. Another beat, and everything just - implodes.

The last thing I see is her face. Her hand extended, just a brief farewell.

/

"Lena."

/

It's hot and it burns and I wish it would stop.

/

"Lena, wake up!"

I inhale sharply, gasping as I sit up on the couch. The papers in my lap spill down in a whoosh onto the carpet, and a sob escapes my mouth when I see Adrian kneeling before me, his eyes intent and concerned.

"I can't - I...I'm so sorry," I whisper, my throat raw. "Oh my god...oh my god..."

"Shh, shhhhh, shhh." His hand is gentle as he pulls me up against him, letting me press my face into his chest.

"Don't wanna...I-...Adrian," I plead helplessly, eyes stinging with tears.

He keeps holding me like this, hand brushing gently across my shoulders, my back. Not even asking, just giving and giving and giving.

And when the tremors stop, when my sobbing quiets and he presses another kiss to my forehead - I work up the courage to speak again.

"I saw...I was dreaming, and it was - everything was going wrong, and I saw Ava, she came through the door and I saw her-"

"Avalyn Tamsin? The woman that-"

"Yeah, it was...it was her. She...well, you know that we were friends back at UW, but it was a few years...I mean, it was a few years later that it all happened. The stuff that I never told you." I look at him and Adrian merely nods, his thumb rubbing gently against the back of my hand. "So, she got a husband, a bad type. And he basically held her - held her on this leash made of threats and lies and the kids - she stayed for the kids, but he, some nights he'd-" My throat hitches, and I cover my mouth as a whimper escapes me.

"Oh, Lena," Adrian whispers, so sad and loving.

"And…you see…One day she just doesn't show up. To our get-together at this stupid coffeeshop. And I'm thinking that it's normal – she's late sometimes, sometimes doesn't even make it, you know, with her kids and such. But I hear the news in the afternoon." Face feeling frozen, I stare blankly at the steel-grey walls in the penthouse. "She's dead. Of suicide, apparently. But it wasn't, I know - I know what he did to her."

I choke suddenly on a sob, and then the tears are streaming down my face; my throat is burning. His hand tightens around mine and he pulls me towards him, cupping my face in his hands, but I shake my head, moving away.

"She told me last time that she was scared. That she was scared he was going to do something bad."

"Lena, it's not your fault."

"But it is – it is. I should have done something. I…I fucking told her that he'd never go that far. I told her that we lived in a better world than that. But it seems like we really don't. And...and then I knew I had to do something.

"And that morning after...after it was done…I went on a jog around the lake. And I was tired, and I was frustrated and sad. I didn't know what I had done. I couldn't bear knowing that I had… killed someone."

I look up at him, face red and eyelids puffy and swollen. My hair is sticking wildly to my cheeks from the tears, and I sniff wetly. "And I met you. And since then I've never looked back - I've never, ever thought about it, not until now, and I don't know why, and I'm so...I'm so fucking scared-"

"Listen to me. Lena, please." When I continue to look away, he lowers his voice to a soft whisper. "Lena, look at me, please."

His eyes are so warm.

"It's not your fault. It never, never is your fault. You have to understand that."

"But-"

He cuts me off. "What happened happened, and it... I know that it only goes to show - how wicked and unjust and cruel this world is. But it's not your fault. There's so much evil and there's so much good and you have to know that you did the best you could."

"But...but it's not just that, this war - it's gone so far. I'm scared."

He takes my hands - knots his fingers through mine. "I will save you. I promise."

* * *

The newspaper the next morning comes with a gruesome image - a large man lying on the sidewalk, blood pooling around him and his face covered in lacerations. I grimace and flip to the inside article, trying to will the picture out of my head.

Adrian kisses me on the cheek as he leans forward to grab a bagel from the toaster. He raises his eyebrows as he sees the headline.

"'67 Year Old Man Edward Blake Fell 23 Storys To His Death.' Hmm. Suicide?"

"I don't know. We've been getting a lot of cases of mental breakdowns and problems because of...y'know, what's happening right now. But this is new." I sigh, feeling saddened.

"Well, don't let it ruin your day, Lena. We're still alive and that's what matters."

"Yeah, I know." I frown. "I just feel like...everyone's scared. Things've been rough all around." I finish the last few bites of my sandwich and swallow, feeling the familiar soreness of my throat from crying last night. "Ahem. Anyways. I was, um. Thinking of taking a run in Central Park in the morning. Do you want to come with me?"

"I'm afraid I have too much work to do with. A conference with GE and several other energy companies, and an early interview with Nova Express."

"'S okay. I'll be back at around 10." I kiss him. "Love you."

He touches my arm then, and I turn around. "Are you alright, Lena?"

I blink, pretending to look surprised. "Yeah? Yeah I'm...I'm fine."

He purses his lips and then smiles faintly. "Okay."

Truth is, I don't know if I'm fine. Maybe it's just that time of year again, the anxiety all coming back. The wheel of history turning. But I don't want him to worry about me. And though I know he'd never admit it if I asked, he has more important things to think of.

So, yeah, I keep it to myself.

The wind whistling between the skyscrapers and alleyways is cold, yet the air is still somehow warm from the throngs of people and cars all around. My nose scrunches up at the molasses-bitter smell of diesel.

Bernie calls out a greeting when I run up to him, and we exchange a few pleasantries before I'm off again, heading towards the park ahead. Central Park in the morning is all but silent; the tourists haven't gotten up yet, most residents are rushed to get to work and the only sound I can hear are the soft burbling cooes of pigeons and the sounds of hot-dog vendors setting up. The small lapping waves down at the lake are gold-rimmed from the sunlight, and it's peaceful enough that I can sit there and take a breather. Not think about last night. About Ava.

No, of course not.

After changing out of my clothes back at the penthouse I leave for campus to get the next stack of finals for Saturday grading. And after that it's a slow day of marking page after page of test answers and putting scantron sheets into the machine.

I can't stop thinking about the newspaper, the shape of the body on the concrete sidewalk, the blood being washed away, robe soaked in it.

Blood being scrubbed away from the floorboards, my fingers turning wrinkled and pink and the bucket of water just as red.

* * *

When evening comes at home, I turn on the table lamp in the bedroom and sit down with another stack of worksheets and term essays. The sky is clear enough in the evening that I can see the way the sun paints the grey smog a rosy orange.

As I'm scanning through a rather promising essay, I hear a faint tapping sound from the bedroom window and turn to see Rorschach perched on the windowsill, his grappling gun still hooked onto the side panel.

"Rorschach! What are you - what're you doing here?" I walk over as he lets himself in, and close the window behind him as he looks around the room.

"Came to tell you something." He takes off his hat as he turns back around, and I watch silently as the inky blobs move. "Comedian is dead."

"The Comedian? How?"

"Edward Blake. Thrown from penthouse last night. Trust you've seen news."

A chill passes over me and I nod, recalling the paper from this morning. "But... why? They got a suspect or anything?"

"Veidt not tell you? Typical," Rorschach snorts. "Daniel came to visit in to Veidt about Comedian. Seems Veidt didn't pass on news."

"Hey, come on. He probably just forgot. I mean, he was gone all of last night, and this morning, too." I can almost feel him roll his eyes, so I move on. "It wasn't suicide, was it? And probably not a burglary or anything. I mean, that guy was built like a horse."

"Think someone's trying to take out masks." He looks away, running a finger over the mahogany edge of a bookshelf.

"Nah, you don't really…" I shake my head, walking past him to my desk to rearrange some papers as I order my thoughts. "Could it have been some kind of...I don't know, political assassination? I've heard he's been working for the government overseas, doing all sorts of sketchy business."

"Hurm. Same thing Veidt said. Must be rubbing off on you." He turns and the accusation in his voice is clear. "Comfortable, wealthy life. Doesn't suit you, Madeline."

I cross my arms, eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You grew up fighting. Knew what was right and wrong. Not wealth, no…" He gestures with a gloved hand. "Gilded cage. Place doesn't suit you."

"Glad I don't need your seal of approval, then." At his silence, I continue. "Adrian's a good man, Rorschach. He's..he's trying his best to save us all."

He scoffs. "Should pick his character and stay with it. Maybe good man before. Now, working with all the elites - the fat cats and the moneybags. Selling us on little figurines and toy cars. No greater cause, is there?"

"Get out." I point towards the window, glaring at him as my voice breaks. He stares back, the patches of black on his face slipping in strange shapes back and forth across the mask. After a moment, he puts his hat back on and walks back towards the window.

"Be seeing you," is the last I hear before the window swings shut behind him.

I sit down and put my face in my hands.

The Comedian is dead and the war - it's coming closer than ever.

It's getting to be winter again.

* * *

_Everybody likes to get taken for turns,_

_To see how bright the fire side of us burns._

  _A_ _nd everybody wants to get evil tonight,_

**_but all good devils masquerade under the light._ **

-Tally Hall, Turn The Lights Off

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please give kudos/review  
> UPDATE: ch13 will likely be done by 5/14  
> UPDATEp2: i am a Big Liar


	13. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: attempted rape, violence

Laurie calls me a few hours later, saying that Rorschach broke in to tell them that “that sonuvabitch rapist died”.  

“-and I don’t even give a damn, you know, Lena?”

I smile despite myself, cheered a little by the familiar fire in her voice. “Yeah, I got the message, too. He broke in last night through the window, must’ve scaled the whole building.”

“No way. You’re kidding!” Laurie sounds amazed.

“Haha. I wish.”

“Man, Rorschach, though. What a creep. And Jon’s no good either - talking about gluinos again or some boring crap. So I decided to call Dan up, go to dinner with him - Hey, speaking of which, you wanna come with us? Bring Adrian along too?”

“Nah, kid. Week after finals, you know? I’ve got a ton of stuff to grade.”

I can almost feel her roll her eyes. “You’re getting old, Lena. Old ‘n soft ‘n boring. And stop calling me ‘kid’. I’m only a few years younger than you.”

“Whatever makes you happy, Laurel Jane.”

She laughs. “Hey, screw you too!”

“I’ll see you later. And tell Dan I said hi.”

“Will do.”

* * *

Almost fittingly, the weather’s windy and wet on the day of the funeral. I open my umbrella as I exit the car, my fingers gripping the curve of the handle.The splash of rain on concrete grows louder as thunder cracks in the distance.

The hearse is parked ahead.

Each step towards the gravesite, towards the empty hole, six feet deep - it all feels oddly heavy and slow. Like something’s changed. And really, it has - the man, the murderer, the hero, the mercenary, the mask and the cigar and the smiley-face pin, all reduced to this single resting place.

One of us, reduced to a cold body in a cold grave.

I almost can’t believe he’s dead.

The rain is falling harder now as the marines march closer, the coffin borne aloft by their shoulders. And when it passes by I take a breath, looking at the lid of the coffin, the swaying veil of the red-white-blue and the glossy black beneath, quiet and nondescript. His name, engraved on a small metal plaque.

When they reach the grave, the marines turn, pull the flag from the top of the coffin and solemnly fold it into a small triangle. Blue cloth and stars on the outside, it’s handed to another official. The coffin, now suspended by straps of black fabric, is gently lowered down into the rectangular shaft. When it hits the ground below, they pull the straps back up and fold them together.

A man clears his throat, then, and we look up as the priest opens the Bible. His hands, wrinkled and worn, push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He gently presses the pages down flat as he begins to read.

“Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of miseries. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth to stay.”

Movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turn to see Rorschach - no, Walter, orange hair aflame and wet from the rain, walk by the iron gates. He stops, turns his collar up however futilely to ward off the wind and rain.

The ink on the sign is bleeding, like black tears that drip down and stain into the wood.

“-O lord most mighty, o holy and most merciful savior - Deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death...”

Adrian’s eyes are flat, pensive as he stares at the grave, Jon’s emotionless as usual and Dan - Daniel, his eyes are wet with tears, with rain and fear and anguish, his face crumpled.

The pools of muddy water are overflowing into the stained grass, gray and murky. But in a different place, a different time, the washed out color of the streetlamp is turning the puddles to gold, the clouds in the night sky to silver as I crouched low behind a blockade near the entrance of a warehouse.

We’d been tailing a sex trafficking ring by the waterfront for some weeks now, following the shipments past the harbor, waiting for the right time to strike. Dan and Adrian were overhead in Archie, the murmur of their voices low in the com link as they relayed the information down to the Comedian and I.

My eyes scan the five guards hanging out in the lot, checking their weapon specs and their rotation shifts. I take a step forward, and the Comedian suddenly grunts, hand coming in front to block me.

“Kid, don’t-”

The sound of the trip-wire sends a cold wash of fear through me, and one by one the floodlights turn on, casting bright white light onto the entire lot. Immediately the guards turn, guns aimed towards where we’re hiding.

“Fuckin’ rookie mistake, kid,” the Comedian snarls as he cocks his shotgun. I grab a teargas canister and toss it high into the air.

“What happened?” Dan’s voice is worried, and I know he can see the sudden plume of white smoke from above the second the canister hits the asphalt. The guards are yelling frantically as the canister spirals on the asphalt, the smoke beginning to obscure all vision.

“Ozy’s little friend here screwed up, is what happened! Hey, over here, you sons-a-bitches!” Laughing, he vaults over the ledge and hits the ground, firing with deadly accuracy into the smoke. He turns to glare up at me when I stay, frozen. “What’re you doing, girl? Don’t you know a good fight when you see one?”

I follow his command, dropping down onto the lot below and flicking out a pair of steel-tipped batons. The two of us sprint across the open lot towards the warehouse.

Back pressed up against the side entrance, I unhook a grenade from my belt and unclip it before tossing it inside. A scuffle and then a man yells, before the grenade goes off, orange flames and smoke blasting out of the door.

I duck and roll in, whipping the batons through the air once and hearing the crackle of electricity as they charge up.

“Shit!” one of the men yells, and fumbles for his gun, but I vault over the couch and slam the batons on either side of his neck, shocking him unconscious.

The Comedian grabs the other man’s neck and twists, snapping his spinal cord. “Watch out, kid-”

I turn and duck as the third guard appears from a side room across the hallway and swings an Uzi forward. With no time to spare, I flip over the dining table and collapse behind it as the bullets slam loudly into the hardwood. Just a few meters away from me, the Comedian is sitting behind the couch.

“Shit, my shotgun’s jammed.” He pulls at the trigger again, before growling in frustration.

“He’s getting near!”

“No shit, kid, you don’t think I can see that?” He pauses, and I can see the gears working in his mind, before he suddenly smirks. “...Ya think he can shoot both of us at once?

I groan. “So it’s both sides, then.” I flinch when a bullet suddenly shreds through the table, and quickly unclip a stun grenade from my belt. The Comedian slips on a pair of earplugs as I press a button on the side of my helmet, soundproofing the inside, before tossing the grenade out.

Silence.

I close my eyes.

_Bang._

_One. Two._

The two of us jump out from the blockades, and to my surprise, the guard’s still holding the Uzi, his mouth open in a soundless yell. Immediately a round shatters into my helmet, the screen shutting down but the glass itself holding strong, and I tuck and sprint forward, dodging side to side as the guard frantically swings the gun between me and the Comedian.

He’s the first to reach the hostile and tackles the man to the floor. The Uzi goes flying into the air and lands on the carpet, and the Comedian grabs it.

“No-” I yell-

And he fires into the man’s head, his skull immediately shattering and blood spraying out.  

“Christ-” I look away from the sight, feeling my stomach turn. “Stop it!”

He drops the submachine gun and spits at the ground. “Fuckin bastard grazed my side,” he mutters, as he touches his side and his fingers come away with blood.

I shake my head. “That’s not an excuse to just - kill him like that! He was already down!”

He rolls his eyes. “We don’t have all day, kid. You wanna keep arguing about morals or finish this mission?” Without waiting for a response, he turns and heads down the dimly lit hallway. and I jerk suddenly when Adrian’s voice comes back onto the speaker.

“-aker? Starmaker? What the hell is going on down there?”

The Comedian kicks down the door labeled “Basement”, and the connection fizzes out as I follow him down into the concrete stairwell.  

The electricity must have gone out at some point, because it’s pitch black down here. I flick my headlights onto the lowest setting, and descend the stairs. The air grows colder and colder as I move downstairs, past one flight and then another. On the last flight I come across an open door, the green EXIT sign flaring bright in the darkness. The hallway laid before me is dark, the Comedian’s hulking form illuminated by a single shaft of yellowed light coming from the room before him.

The headlights flicker off as I take a step forward. “Comedian? What-”

But he won’t move, his eyes glued to the scene inside. I sprint down the hallway towards him, and it’s then that I hear the shouting and screaming coming from the slant of light in the half-open door.

“They’re here, they’re gonna string you up, you bastard-” A woman is pushing against Montagua, trying to escape as he tears at her undergarments.

“Shut up, you bitch, stop moving. No one’s coming to save you.”  

Neither of them seem to see us, and as they keep struggling, rage is filling me. “Move, Comedian!” I hiss, attempting to shove him aside.

His hand is shaking.

“Stupid whore.” Montagua laughs, grabbing a fistful of her flame-red hair and knocking her head against the bedpost.

She screams, pitched and terrified, and it’s that noise that finally makes something snap inside of the Comedian.

“Get your filthy hands off of her!” He roars and charges through the door, tackling the man and kneeing him hard in the stomach, and when Montagua makes to stand he cracks the butt of the shotgun against his head. The woman falls limply down beside the bed, covering her ears and screaming loudly.

During the commotion, a guard in the side room rushes over and I grab a cushioned chair and throw it at him, slamming him to the ground. He reaches for his fallen machine gun and I duck behind a short metal cabinet as he opens fire, painting bulletholes all across the walls.

The woman is still screaming, covering her face as the Comedian shoves Montagua into the bathroom and smashes his face against the mirror. When the guard pushes the chair aside and starts to reload the magazine, I vault over the cabinet and kick him upside the head, rendering him unconscious.

“Fucking - god - damned - bastard-” He punctuates every word with slamming Montagua’s head against the sink faucet, and the water is running red.

“Stop! He’s done - stop!” With my yell, the Comedian finally lets go of the man’s neck, and his body slumps down, doll-like and limp.

The woman takes a shaky, tremulous breath, fingers laced across her eyes as she glances wildly around the room, gaze finally settling on the bathroom. “He...oh my god, he’s dead, isn’t he?” She covers her mouth in shock, eyes filling with tears.

Ignoring the sickening dread in my stomach, I kneel down beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Ma’am? I need you to look here. Just a moment.” I flick out the flashlight from my pocket and shine it in her eyes, side to side. Definitely a concussion.

“Fuckin...Jesus…” He’s still muttering angrily, aims a kick at the side of the bed that startles both of us, but when he turns to look at us, the scowl on his face drops. “She okay?”

“Uhh. I think so. Mild concussion, some dehydration.”  Her head nods, red hair spilling down her shoulders, and I shake her. “Ma’am? I’m gonna need you to stay awake, come on. Hey, hey, hey, look-” I start when the woman struggles weakly against me. “You’re safe now, okay? We’re gonna get you back home. We’re here to protect you. Just take a deep breath.”

Just then, Adrian and Dan rush into the room. Dan stops just short of the doorway, mouth falling open when he sees the blood splattered across the bathroom.

“Jesus. What the hell happened here?”

“Nite Owl, I’m gonna need you to call the police first. We got a wounded civilian.”

Dan takes a look at me, and nods. “Right, I’m on it.”

Adrian circles around the bed to find me crouched beside the woman, who, despite my best efforts, is still nodding off. His eyes flit over to the mess in the bathroom, the dead body slumped there, and he stands, anger in his voice as he looks at the Comedian.

“Did you do this?”

The other man laughs, leaning against the wall. “What do you think? Nice little painting, ain’t it?”

Adrian’s tone is deathly. “This isn’t one of your little jokes, Comedian. You’ve just lost us our link to the head ring. And don’t think that his death is right. This isn’t justice.”

“Well, too fucking bad. He deserved it.”

As they keep bickering, Dan arrives, and I help the woman over to him, who in turn gives her a blanket and moves her away from the area. When he comes back, the two of us head out into the hallway, neither of us wanting to stay near the confrontation going on in the bathroom. I sigh heavily, leaning my head back against wall.

“What’s the ETA looking like?”

Dan shrugs. “Don’t know. Couple of minutes, I think. They say they’ve already got a dispatch in the area.”

“Neat.” I turn, and sigh a little as I look at my husband, still standing his ground against the mercenary.

“Not so neat, really. You sure we can’t bring her back to the hospital with Archie? It’d be a lot faster.”

“I don’t think she’s in the condition to use any kinda flying transport. Plus, we all know how bad you fly,” I joke, elbowing him. Dan snorts.

“-we’re done here.” Adrian storms past me.

“Didn’t know it was gonna take just a coupla words to sort out your bitch ass, Ozy!” the Comedian calls after him.

“Hey, knock it off,” Dan says. “C’mon. We’re all gonna have to wait until the cops show so that she’s taken care of, then we’re heading back.”

“Whatever.” He shoves past us and exits the basement.

* * *

After Archie takes off, Adrian heads to mid-ship where I’m sitting. “Lena, are you alright?”

“Yeah.” I motion towards my side. “Just a few bruises, I think.”

He glares at the Comedian, sitting in the back corner of the ship. “I should’ve been more careful. You shouldn’t be alone on any more missions with him. The Comedian isn’t disciplined enough.”

“Hey, buddy, it’s...y’know, it’s over. I’ll deal with that later.” Adrian half-smiles at the tired tone in my voice, and I lean my head against his shoulder. “C’mon. Lighten up, bucko. Besides, haven’t I done a great job protecting myself? I mean, look. I haven’t died a single time!”

“Immature.” Adrian scoffs, but leans down to press a kiss against my temple.  

Outside the window, the dark water recedes into the streets and then to the endless sweeping cityscape; the flickering neon and the gold-rimmed skyscrapers, the harsh orange dots lining each sidewalk, each street, the smog blurring it all and making it seem like something out of a dream.

My ears pop as the altitude drops, and the glow of nightlife is soon replaced by the flare of the halogen lamps lighting the tunnel. Dan slows down and does a final turn inside the basement, carefully setting Archie down on the racks facing the tunnel entrance. The Comedian and Dan head out first, Adrian and I following after.

I turn to him. “You get home first. I have to work it out with him.”

Adrian sighs, squeezes my hand once. “Don’t let his words get under your skin, Lena. You know how he can be.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Once Dan and Adrian have left the basement, I turn to look at the other man, sitting on the ledge cleaning his shotgun.

“Comedian. We need to talk.”

“Yeah?” He wipes the grease from his hands with a towel and tosses it on the ground. “What about?”

I brace myself. “What happened back there? What was that?”

“None of your business, kid.”

“It is my business, you idiot! You killed Montagua when you knew we were supposed to bring him back alive. And that woman - she could’ve died if you kept on standing there like a god-damned pole in the groun-”

“I said, none of your fucking business!” He raises a hand and I startle, flinching. Seeing the movement, he clenches his jaw and instead brings his hand up to comb roughly through his hair. He takes a deep breath, and I can suddenly hear the wobble in his voice.

“Christ, kid, you...I’ve had… I’ve done things, things I ain’t proud of. And it...you know, it comes back sometimes.” He pauses, takes a step back. “I can be sorry for the things I’ve done, can’t I? And...and I’m sorry for tonight. You shouldn’ta seen that.”

“Then... talk to me, for chrissakes! If we need to be a functioning team, you need to...you need to trust me.”

He laughs sardonically, takes a swig from his flask. “You know what, I thought you were a good sort. Kept quiet, kept to yourself. Don’t be a bitch, Madeleine.” The sting surprises me, but it’s that last word that surprises me.

“How did you-”

He straightens, eyes gleaming, and I can tell now - this is when he’s at his best, when there’s only wounds on others to pick at and he doesn’t have to think about where he’s bleeding.

“Heh. That’s right, I know all about you. I know about your little _job_ down at Columbia, I know all about you and what you did, I know about that girl back in Seattle, Ava or some shit-”

“Don’t you dare.” My fists are curled. The smile falls from his face, bit by bit, and, I think, something inside him - weakens.

“You know what, fuck this. Fuck this, and fuck you, and fuck the Watchmen. Do you think I’m not human? That I don’t hurt the same goddamn ways that you do?” He takes a step back, and I stare at him, seeing the shape of a tired, weary man who’s almost done fighting.

“...Thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour...For any pains to death, to fall from thee...”

The water is falling in steady streams from the metal tips of the umbrella, and it’s so, so cold.

The priest closes the Bible, makes the sign of the cross across his chest, and the silence ends, then, the small crowd breaking up into murmurs. An older marine, probably one who’d worked with Blake back overseas, picks up a brand-new spade. Digs it into the dirt - a strange, metallic scrape - and then the first shovelful hits the lid of the coffin. Dan looks down at his hand, where I finally notice the smiley-face pin, brown blood smudged on the cadmium yellow. He sighs as he tosses it down into the grave, and the next shovelful blocks it from view.

Adrian is quiet on the ride home, and as the city passes by through the tinted windows I marvel at how fast everything has changed. And I realize - we always felt that we’d live forever. Maybe not on those stakeouts, during the knife fights and riots, with danger so close, but...when it was all over - we felt invincible.

And it’s strange to imagine that one of us is gone already. No matter how - crude, how evil and cruel and unwelcome he’d been at times, he was still one of us.

A Watchman.

When we get home the rain has stopped, pale blue sky showing through shifts and slivers in the clouds, the wan sunlight reflecting off the skyscrapers. It’s so quiet now, the aftermath of a funeral lingering in the air, a somber wind permeating the space between us. Yet, in my head, the priest is still talking, his voice soft in the loud patter of rain on umbrellas, quiet amidst the darkness of the cemetery.

But it’s not Blake in the ground, and there’s no more sun.

_“From henceforth, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labors. Lord have mercy upon us. Christ have mercy upon us. Lord have mercy upon us._

_“Our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven._

_“Give us our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…_

_“...but deliver us from evil._

_“_ **_Amen_ ** _.”_

And there’s no more sun.

* * *

_And still to come,_

_The worst part, and you know it,_

_There is a numbness,_

_In your heart and it's growing._

-The Shins, A Comet Appears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review/kudos. send me your love!


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